Disappearing

A poem for women who feel like they are disappearing; a fictional tale with reality seamed into each letter

—-

I’m disappearing,

Am I still here?

I’m not lost. I’m not afraid.

I’m right here in front of you, incongruous

To your narrow, anti-social perspective

Like a flock of white sheep heading into a busy city;

We do not match up right.

I’m not afraid, but I know I am (disappearing)slowly

And deeply, as of it’s running deep into the very atoms that created my bones, my marrow

My blood,

Changing my structure into something new,

Like a collapsible star that can be used at will,

And then folded up when not acceptable and useful. (It must not get enough energy to finally die, it must survive just enough to live for other things)

I’m disappearing,

Am I still here?

I write these little drabbles and painful things that stick out of me like needles and pins and things that can stab at you so I

Can move further away from that dark shadow that is my looming death, not a physical death

A personal death, accidentally sent by that last bit of gray, sopping indifference,

That huge piece of paper that has too many bleeding words,

And I eat them up again and again and again.

I’m disappearing,

Am I still here?

I’m not lost. I’m not afraid.

You dragged me into your silent shadow,

I have been pulled into it, a deep chasm of

Agony.

In the beginning, I was made to believe that I was going somewhere in the end,

But it was only a stagnant

Black

Pool, with soggy, dripping wet

Words, slapped back with venom.

I cannot read them anymore, not at all.

My new story isn’t written, it’s backlogged in blackness and shadow.

disappearing, but really there,

How does that feel?

Do you all even care?

To know how very small your voice really matters in a sea of so many?

I know you do.

I know you understand it more than most people.

And still, a woman who is a mother who is a sister who is a girlfriend/wife who must always be congenial and demure, and also, always, first is a

human being,

Still can’t do anything right

If she first opens up her mouth.

I’m disappearing,

Am I still here?

I’m not lost. I’m not afraid.

I’m right here

in front of you, like an incongruous

Spice mixed up in a new dish,

And you immediately ask the waiter for a new meal.

One day, every trace of me

Will

Be

Completely

Gone.

I’m

Not

Afraid.

That’s not why I’m writing this.

It’s becoming too much to even write down,

Because there really are no words to describe being thrown away over and over and over

By so many, but still used,

Still used,

And then told nothing is good enough,

The bare minimum “good enough”

To earn your very breath and bread,

And to have your voice stolen over and over and over and over,

Like you really

Are

Disappearing,

Gone—-

Without a trace.

It’s the perfect crime,

Because there’s no evidence

And there’s not a

mark on her.