Observer

I feel like I’m a plastic bag in the ocean. Burning. Spiraling. Caught in currents. And I’m the only one who notices it. I feel like a bystander to my own life. I watch myself talk. I hear myself speak. Sometimes I know I’m saying the wrong thing, but I say it anyway. I know how to comfort others, but I don’t know how to comfort myself. I give and give and give until there’s nothing left but a quiet ache where something used to be. People don’t really see me. Not the real me. Just the shell. Just the mask. The one who knows what to say. The one who plays the part. The one who never gets seen. I’m always the observer. Even in my own skin. Even in my own pain. Even when I’m screaming. Even when I’m gone.