When I was eight years old, I was a ghost for Halloween.

But when I knocked on my neighbor’s door, she still noticed me and handed me a Snickers bar.

But you didn’t do the same.

You didn’t even notice my little black gloves to protect my hands from the cold night

Because maybe my hands were not the things that needed protection

Maybe I should have worried about my costume and its intentions

Because to you, I surely was a ghost

And to you, I surely was invisible.

 

It was okay for you to treat me as invisible for that one night

Because I might as well play the part

 

But what about after that night?

Did you forget that I’m not eight anymore?

Didn’t your iPhone calendar remind you that eight of my birthdays have passed since then?

Darn that forgetful technology, huh?

 

I heard the garage door’s familiar growl.

Your silver minivan crawled inside of its space as you stumbled out.

And I was waiting for you.

 

I sat at the dinner table

Tapping my cold fingers against the glass table

You walked past me as the wind of your movement brushed my hair against my cheek

 

I kept tapping my fingers

Thinking that maybe later

You may notice the new fingerprints on your prized glass table.

 

You threw your briefcase against the floor

As I watched the brown leather handle slip from your grasp.

A deep sigh released from your chest

As you pushed the hair away from your forehead.

 

Your phone rang

And you answered it almost immediately.

“Hello. Yes that would be great! I..”

Your conversation continued into an ongoing jumble of pointless words.

 

I started tapping my fingers again

Harder and harder each time

Until a slight tap turned into a large roar.

“For the love of God, someone stop that noise! Can’t you see that I’m busy?” you said.

 

I stopped tapping now knowing that you could hear me.

But then again

You meant so much to me

And yet to you

I was only a burden of loud sound.

 

So I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I bothered you with my tapping.

I’m sorry that I chose to be a ghost for Halloween,

Because maybe that gave you the wrong idea.

I’m sorry that I’m never enough.

I’m sorry that my opinion is not as great as yours

Because you are the ocean and I am only a wave.

 

But I don’t want to be the ocean.

I don’t want to have to hold so much inside of me

Without seeping little bits of myself out.

 

I’m sorry that you are a message in a bottle

And for years I have been trying to open you up.

 

I’m sorry that I’m invisible.

But I can’t do it anymore.

I can’t be left unnoticed.

 

I wish that I could have collected

The amount of screams into my pillowcase

Or the gallons of tears fallen from my eyes

Or the hours I spent waiting to see your silver minivan pull into the garage

So then you could see that I was never invisible.

 

I’m sorry

I’m sorry that I never had that “wow” factor to you

I’m sorry that I was never as shiny as your flask

I’m sorry that for every sip, you begin to lose who you are

And I’m sorry that for every sip, you begin to forget who I am.

I’m sorry that my words don’t taste as good as the chill of vodka as it slides down your throat.

 

I’m sorry that I can’t be enough for you

But that isn’t an excuse to forget my existence

I’m not a ghost anymore and I don’t know how much alcohol you have consumed to forget that fact

I’m sorry that when I was eight years old, I wore a ghost costume

Because never should I have given you the wrong idea.