The paint goes on thick; it sticks to the skin, and shrinks it. I don’t mind; it makes me feel invisible.
First the left shoulder disappears, then the scar where once there was a heart.
What a lie.
The heart is still there.
Feel it under the invisible paint; see it pulse under the horrendous, under the grotesque veins, and mass of scar tissue. It beats strong, steady – a rhythm to set time by; steady ready undeterred, feels without reason.
Make her invisible, but not quiet, not yet; there are more anthems, and dirges, and ballads, and drones; sweet nothing lullabies to be sung by heart.
Intimate scrawls 
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