Glass

You feel continuously as though you’re made of glass.

Transparent and forgotten. That one dusty window high up that’s too small and angled just wrong so as to never let in sunlight, and you never clean until it gets really filthy and then you bitch and moan about how useless and trouble-making that one bloody window is.

You know the window is there of course, it’s a window, but you ignore it until you can’t anymore.

And it’s worse because you’re not the window, a sum of parts. You’re simply the glass. You don’t really have a function even. You’re a window in a sunny country. One that never sees rain or snow to keep out, and is still, is still too high to give a glimpse of the sunlight. So what use are you?

And you are transparent, you can see right through yourself. And you am not a piece of the puzzle, you are easily broken and replaced. And you are not useful.

You are glass. And you are worthless.