It’s as if I’m invisible. People look right through me without seeing me, or they see me without seeing me. It’s infuriating at times, but liberating as well. I’m a shadow. I don’t exist. I can wear the brightest, most ridiculous or amazing, or just unusual things I can find and make everyone stare, but they never see me. I don’t exist. I’m not here. I’m a figment of my own imagination, and whoever they see is a figment of their own imaginations. It can be intoxicating, infuriating, lonely. People used to see me. I used to be me. But that position was too vulnerable. People saw me and they saw my weaknesses and took advantage of them. So now I sit alone inside my skull while six different people take turns making me into them and then sometimes they succeed and I blink out of existence, like the light of a Christmas ornament left on all year long. I’m left to wonder who I am, and if I even exist anymore. I’ve read too many books and in an attempt to destroy my weaknesses, I’ve made myself into a patchwork girl of fairy tale heroes. The Robin Hood, the Knight in Shining Armor, the Unwilling Hero, the Bad Guy Turned Good, the Battle-Weary Warrior, the Eager Page. These are the clothes I wear. These are the faces I present. And no one sees me.