Unhuman

When I was younger, learning of people came with splitting a drink. I don't share the same disdain for drinking that my friends and family have. I'm not naïve, I know it's essentially poison, but I figured the trade-off, then, was worth it. I liked the act of drinking, it used to mean I get to share a time with people baring a part of themselves: who they were, a funny thing that happened today, what they feel, when did they laughed the loudest, cried the lowest yet the hardest. 

The drinks helped soften the masks we believe to be ourselves and show a sliver of what's underneath. It used to feel as if sharing what it meant to be a person, with the answer changing with each story heard. And even when it transformed from one sport victory to another sweet look back at a love ruined by a terrible break-up, it felt as if the shape and weight, to me, looked familiar with every voice. 

A friend I'm seeing again, only, changed with the stories they have. 

I used to like going out to clubs and bars, a wonder washes over me, filling me with excitement to hear the next person. Now, it feels as if it's hollow, a corpse possessed for posturing, for displaying the surface, and god forbid if that surface breaks: a measure if you're to be seen or heard, else, unseen, unheard... unhuman. 

There's no wonder anymore. I only feel myself getting hollowed out, leaving only my skin, to be postured the way they think I should be. And who I should be to them is not very much: a bystander, glazed away by eyes that meet my shape but determined to be less than the worth spent on the moment of seeing me. I can't see that familiar shape anymore. 

The shape has changed, with each voice now competes to look better with every drink, and they are easier on the eyes, yes. But I won't spend a moment of looking inside their pretty, weightless shapes.

I only see hollow puppets, fighting to be seen, be heard, be human.