Ghost in My Own Skin

Dead with a pulse

and softly losing control,

I move through rooms like smoke,

breathing but not alive,

fading but still here,

a ghost in my own skin

no one notices.

Sometimes I wonder if I even notice myself anymore.

There’s a strange kind of comfort in invisibility—

it saves me from the weight of pretending.

But it’s lonely, too.

To exist in the space between seen and unseen,

alive and not really living.

Maybe this is what it means to disappear

without ever leaving.