Art of Disappearing

This isn’t a poem about renunciation. It isn’t a manual
for introverts on how to vanish from a room full of
strangers. This is a sad account on how small things
trigger me like my body is flammable and this world
is on fire. Humans are peculiar, they say take up space
and when I do, I disappear. So if you want to learn the
art of disappearing, follow my manual on how to be me,
because I am a small town ghost trapped in a human
body that has retained its invisibility.

Cry your eyes out every night until they are swollen and
red, sit on the kitchen floor beside the lilies and starve
yourself until you can no more, wake up every morning
feeling like you are nobody, and lastly, always refuse to get therapy.

Now,
they will forget your name and call you another.
You will be backstage, anticipating your turn but it will
never come. In the exam hall they will wish everyone
luck, but you. Your friends will talk in a language only you
do not understand. You will win the prize and they will give
it to another. They won't ask you who you are, they will look
right through you and walk past.

You see, this is how you disappear. You cut your hair, shed
your skin, carve your bones and become me. Everything is
small but I am too—a ghost with a flammable body, and this
world is on fire. I am trapped in a human and have mastered
this art of invisibility.

...

(just some rambling)