Photo by Jairo Alzate on Unsplash

The Art of Breathing: Someone’s Nothingness in The Flesh

No one’s.

Or even worse: someone’s nothingness in the flesh.

Impersonating all the things that he doesn’t want and repel from.

Looking me in the eye as if I don’t exist, he dares. As if I have never been and will never be a human, hopefully, or a thing, for the least.

It’s high hopes to wish to be someone, let alone someone’s.

I’m the worthless creature he used to know, the worthless creature he used to kiss and caress, the useless entity he used to touch and make love to.

The creature he asked for advice, for love, for company, for passion.

I’m the ashes of a flame that he couldn’t care less about igniting nor putting out.

I’m to be overlooked, skipped, ignored, and neglected.

Or even worse: I’m not recognized to have the privilege of being overlooked, skipped, ignored, and neglected.

I’m the one he would not avoid looking at because I’m not even there.

I’m the hollow figure he looked through and saw nothing!

I’m the one without desires or needs, perfect for his own pleasure and amusement.

I’m the outer space that has no gravity, no oxygen, no life.

I’m the beatless heart that he never knew existed.

I’m a living organism with worthless atoms and ghostly molecules.

I’m the transparent-skinned woman, whose cells were created to be a see-through.

I’m the flesh he once called his.

I’m his nothingness in the flesh.

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