I never smiled much
blending into furniture,
invisible girl hovering, in a party
neither the life nor the soul;
My words often fail to translate
across the cacophony, specially
for people that are meant to matter
the people I think I care for.
When trying to explain
my thoughts, I’m greeted with blank stares
nothingness cursing me back
into voids in my childhood:
I’m a ghost haunting my own house,
My daughters say when I smile,
occasionally moving my lips upwards
It seems I am at a funeral.
A funeral it is, then. Not the burning,
the removal of an earthly body
on darkened flames. Like the wake
held fourteen days later,
there are prayers to be said
and rituals, of course; the dead
have to be folded away, their lives
desecrated with garlands.
Someone told me, to be anything
you first have to be.
I am loneliest when I am not alone,
lost, uninhabited and rejected
even when surrounded
by friends, smoke, music, noise,
pretending to be human,
watching the tide sweep in.
At least when I am lonely I am myself,
talking to my ghosts, quietly not watching
smiling but not quite smiling,
weird and ill-represented, but still there.
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