Two Weeks Notice

To whom it may concern,

I am a novelty, part spectacle. The fact that I am here is an oddity, so is my self-expression. The way I exist to you is a show, a performance. You stare often. You're always watching me.

I am an afterthought. I watch you speak sincerely to everyone around me. But when you talk to me, you talk at me. You don't ask my opinions. There is no space for me to tell my stories. Conversations are one liners. How are you? How was your weekend? Can I have this? Do we have that? Ours is a stale repetition of things I do not care about.

I am an outsider. I connect to nothing. Nothing connects to me. I live on an island, desolate. It's a punishment to remain here and anyone who is burdened to visit feels the same. I am separated away from the whole and it is called my duty. It is my job to be isolated. My job to stand while you sit. My relief burdens you.

I am invisible, a hole in your consciousness. You move around me. You might as well move through me. How can we connect if I'm not even here? I dim as the days pass. The lonelier I feel, the less you sense my presence. This atmosphere makes me regress, collapse inward. I am a black hole.

I am leaving. I don't know how to exist here and I don't think you really want to do the work. And how could I tell you? How can I express what is felt, through legal documents and corporate investigations? Both are too cold for the heat of me. I am too burdened with living in my skin to fight your millions and your lawyers.

I cannot become a historical hero for my generation. All I can do is find a better home for my soul.

So I roam.

Thank you for being my muse for a time.

Sincerely,

Jasmine Hill