I am not invisible

Somedays
I can barely tolerate
my day.
My skin feels rubbed with
sandpaper, itchy
and raw.
Am I invisible?
Would they know if I
hid at home,
buried under
a mountain of covers?
Salvation arrives in
the form of a
former student,
who chose me to invite to a
Thanksgiving dinner.
Maybe they
notice me
after all.

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