X-Ray

I try so hard to be invisible. Walking along the street, windswept, alone. I try to sink into the cold cement, walking with my eyes on the gritty surface of the sidewalk. I try to be invisible. But you notice me. You stare in my direction, your hollow eyes, stripping me, leering at my bare skin, my dark, sad eyes. I hate you. I don’t know your name, but I know who you are, what you stand for. You are every invasive stare, every filthy howl of laughter, the many nasty remarks

and heartless taunting. Your vulgar, shallow words don’t flatter me, they disgust me. You disgust me. I hate you because your x-ray vision can only see so deep. It doesn’t show you the scars that I keep hidden on the inside, not even the ones displayed on the soft surface of my skin, or the anguished cries on the tip of my tongue. I hate you because you look at me, grin, wink, shout at me but you don’t see me at all.

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