(For the interested, Phoebe is one of the moons of Saturn.)


You gave me a flashlight for my birthday.  You said it was so I could go exploring any time I liked.  I know you were lying.  I know you bought it on the way home, because you forgot it was my birthday.  I’m invisible to you.  I don’t know if I care anymore, or if I have given up fighting it.


The first night we were together, you ran fascinated fingers and lips over my scars, my textures, the territories of my history.  And the second, and the third.  After a month, you skimmed them, as a book you had read before, and knew all the interesting parts in.  After a year, you don’t notice them anymore.  I could have skin smooth as cream, white as milk, and you wouldn’t care.  I love my skin, and I would not change a thing.  You loved it once, but you aren’t here anymore.


I miss you being here.  I miss you most when you’re sitting next to me, so busy you have forgotten I exist.  That happens more and more these days.  I am afraid, because I made up so much of myself and remade the stories about myself so they’d center around you.  I am afraid that when you forget me completely, I will stop being a story at all.


So, because I am a survivor first, I will use the flashlight you gave me.  I will use it as you said it was meant, and find new stories in the dark.  When I come home with new scars, maybe you will notice.  I don’t know what I will do if you don’t.