I am fascinated by people
and the way they live
and breathe
so effortlessly.
I like to watch them dance—
twirling
dipping
sinking inside the beats of drums,
ignoring the beats of the hearts
they carry themselves.
I don’t dance.
I don’t know how.
I have absolutely no
sense of rhythm,
I cannot carry a tune to save
my life.
My legs can barely carry my body.
I sometimes wonder,
watching everyone else,
if my inability
is the lack of something else.
Because I see them,
all of them,
all the flush in their cheeks
and breath puffing out of their lungs
and the pulse in their necks—
but I don’t think a single one of them
sees me.
And I think I can’t keep a beat,
because I don’t have a heart that does.
I think I might be invisible.
I think I might be dying
or already dead.
I feel like I might be actively
ceasing to exist;
I can feel myself fading
and being forgotten
and it hurts a lot more than I ever imagined
it would.
I felt like I didn’t exist
and that was the first night
I slit open my skin
just to see the blood
pump out
in time with the heartbeat
I wasn’t sure was there.
Just to prove to myself I was
alive.
To prove I could still feel.