Unseen

As I look down,

I see something that stirs mixed emotions—

this thing that made the ones who once brought me comfort

begin to treat me like a stranger.

As if overnight, I had become someone else.

But I hadn’t.

I was still the same one they played tetherball with,

the same one who laughed beside them.

I resented that this thing

forced me into solitude.

That boys no longer saw a friend in me,

only a body—

something to desire or discard,

never just be with.

It hurt.

So I wrestled with it for years,

gravitating toward the ones who also stood on the outside,

who knew what it was like to be overlooked,

to exist outside the realm of open desire.

That brought me some comfort.

For the way I was

never quite fit anywhere.

The girl who dressed like a boy,

spoke like a boy,

shared their interests

but still wasn’t one of them.

The bullied one.

The one they didn’t know what to do with.

Still, I had crushes on boys,

but something about me—perhaps my expression,

perhaps something I couldn’t change—

made them want to keep me hidden.

The secret.

The late-night voice they confided in,

only to act like I was nothing in daylight.

For a while, I accepted it.

It was the only way to feel almost seen.

Then came the years of almosts—

of people who lingered,

but never stayed.

And I wondered,

if this was just how it would always be—

if I would always be just outside of being truly seen.