THEY CALLED YOU…

You grew up practicing how to disappear in plain sight.
You sat in the back of classrooms and learned to keep your hair angled just right.
In the grocery store, people lowered their voices when you passed, as if your skin carried a curse.
Even your own mother avoided looking straight at you in photos, tilting your chin or insisting you stand half behind someone else.

In your town, cruelty and pity take turns holding the microphone.
Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they sigh.
Either way, you end up smaller.