It’s easy to disappear, almost like falling asleep, your head lolled to one side mouth parted, manners forgotten. Pardon me while I drool on your shoulder.
He says I talk in my sleep, untranslatable, my body twisting, my toes reaching for the cool crevice where the bed meets wall and he answers.
He says, “use your big girl words.”
I’m not a big girl. I can condense, disassemble, break down to the bare minimum. I can pack my parts in colour-coded boxes, sort them on a shelf for you. I can be small. Small, smaller than the insects on the pavement that you take care not to step on or maybe search out with the sole of your shoe.
All “Fi fi fo fum” and shit building yourself on the squished black corpses of others.
Not really, not quite.
I’ve been disappearing lately. It’s easier than I thought it would be. Almost a super power. I blend in to the background and cradle these words fallen on deaf ears, find my reflection in fading memories. Chameleon of the city. Ostrich in the sand. If you don’t make eye-contact, they can’t see you.
I can’t see you.
We’re all words on a screen. Waves in the air. Messages gobbled up by unseen technology faeries. Mischief-makers of the modern world.
Something something something.
It’s hard to reply when you’re disappeared, hard to find the keyboard with invisible fingers, phantom limbs. So, I don’t reply. I get lost in the shuffle between media and hand-held devices and I whisper quietly like squinting in the sun.
Shhhhhh—it, that’s bright.
And wait for the sun to go down
this is the easiest part:
We’re, all of us, disappeared in the dark.