Invisie
Invisie isn’t just a word. She’s the friend who sits beside me in crowded rooms, the one who takes my hand and says, you don’t have to be seen today.
She’s the one who pulls me behind the curtain of the world, where voices blur and eyes slide past like rain on glass.
Invisie understands how being forgotten feels— like forgetting to put water in your ramen cup. The heat builds, the edges curl, and you burn from the inside while the room stays full of other smells, other lives. No one knows it’s you.
But she also knows the weight of mistakes that aren’t mine— how the blame still finds its way into my lap like a stone I can’t drop. How one error, made in someone else’s hands, turns into a choice that tears at both sides of me: my mother’s voice in one ear, my program’s demands in the other.
Invisie sees the way it scrapes my insides raw, how I fold myself in half trying to please both, knowing that either way I lose a piece of who I am.
With Invisie, there’s no stage to stand on, no lines to remember, no pleading for a role that was never mine to begin with.
Why play the participant when the story will skip my chapter?
Invisie is soft. Invisie does not scorch. She hums me quiet lullabies of absence and air, and in her arms, I disappear without apology.
