Maybe you’re invisible. Maybe your vanishing act was caste.
Maybe you’re a ghost in your own home, a stranger moving by too fast.
Maybe every torch you’ve lit extinguished. And maybe no one’s ever cared.
Maybe you’ve disappeared in the eyes of the world. Maybe you were never even there.
No. Each breath you take is given. Each move you make is watched.
The slightest contraction of the chest is whispered, granted to beat and permitted to throb.
So maybe you’ve got holes. Vibrant flaws that scream and sear.
Maybe the condescending whistles really are, the only things you hear.
Maybe you’ve been begging. But no one’s let you in.
Maybe you’ve been playing this game forever. But He’s never let you win.
Still every fall is measured. Every scar you’ve razorred, mapped.
Every hurt has been determined. Every tear that's fallen, kept.
Every smile is carved and painted. Each cry you sound, composed. Every
lump in your throat, created. And the gun in your hand exposed.
So maybe you really are just as small as you imagine. Become a servant to perfection.
Maybe you’re really nothing but you’re image. Fallen to the gods of self-deception.
No. Every tear you’ve shed’s been counted. Every word you uttered, framed. Every thought you’ve thought is written. For, every moment G-d repeats your name.