How to Vanish (In Plain Sight)

Stars don’t scream when they explode—

they simply vanish,

leaving behind

vacuums and black holes

for others to orbit

mindlessly.

You are not so different.

The collapse happens slowly.

First, the light dims.

Then the silence arrives—

not loud, but complete.

You will wake up tired.

This part is essential.

Let the weight of dreams

cling to your ribs

like cobwebs or ghosts.

Forget your name—but not all at once.

Let it fray.

Let it unravel in phone calls,

notice the way no one looks up

when you enter a room.

Speak only in ellipses.

Let your sentences trail off

like chemtrails across a dimming sky.

You are not being erased.

You are learning how to fade.

Sit at the table—

but know there is no speaking.

Not really.

Only the scraping of forks,

the ritual clatter of being

almost human.

Find a small corner

and read quietly

in the shadows.

Make yourself smaller

than a whisper.

Do not disturb

the silence

that keeps the walls from crumbling.

Wear gray.

Or the kind of blue

that forgets it used to be sky.

Don’t panic—

you are still here.

Practice becoming smoke.

Rise in puffs—

curl, shimmer, vanish

above the stovetop,

beneath fluorescent lights,

inside a sigh

you don’t remember exhaling.

Turn repetition into ritual.

Fold laundry like prayer.

Stir the pot clockwise.

Blink exactly seven times before answering.

Be the holy ghost of your own routine.

Leave breadcrumbs

no one will find:

a poem in a drawer,

a feather in the freezer,

a password no one will guess.

Return to dust—

not as ending,

but as reminder:

you were always made of this.

Primordial.

Infinite.

Forgettable.

If someone asks where you went,

smile softly.

Point upward.

Say:

"I am in the sky,

between the stars you never name.

I am in the pause

before the kettle screams."