By Aziza Rahman

A lost soul.

Silent whisper.

A forgotten memory.


From the minds

Of those

Who don’t think

I’m missing.

Whether I choose to be memorable,

My existence,

Subconsciously forgotten.

As if to say,

I was never a thought

To begin with.

The value upon myself

Of me

Becomes me,

Shrinking myself down

To fit into a tiny box.

Set away in place

I know I’ll always remember

Yet unconsciously,

I’ll never remember again.

Until it becomes valuable.


Until I become valuable.



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