If there’s a favorite child,

a ghost child is slowly born

within the shadows.

I don’t tend to be home,

I’ve never craved it.

I’ve always been by myself,

As I slowly faded.

I don’t tend to be around,

Since they’ve never wondered.

Time drifts by,

As I quietly seek out.

They don’t remember,

They don’t remember—

Me.

Anything

that has to do with me,

They don’t remember.

I do want that

mommy-bear embrace.

However—

I’m lonely in that pack,

as if I was never there.

I’m just tired.

I don’t feel seen.

If there’s a favorite child…

I am—the ghost child.