My name doesn’t matter. Most people never ask for it anyway. They just look at me — a scrawny, blind, dirty little cat — and walk away. Some whisper cruel things. Some laugh. Some pretend I don’t exist. But I do. I live. I breathe. I feel everything — especially the loneliness.
I wasn’t always like this. I remember once seeing light. I remember chasing shadows and curling up beside my mother. But then… something happened. A sickness took my sight. The world went dark, and since then, I’ve had to listen — not see. I’ve learned the sound of danger. The sound of footsteps that mean kicks or cruel laughter. The sound of people who hate me just because I can’t see. And maybe also because I have nothing. No home. No family. No shiny fur or bright eyes. Just me. Blind and poor.
I sleep where I can — under broken boxes, behind trash bins, in cold corners where no one bothers to look. I wake up hoping for a kind voice, a warm hand, a little food. Most days, I find none. I walk slowly, carefully, my paws learning the ground, my whiskers brushing against walls. I bump into things. I fall. People laugh. Children throw stones. Someone once poured water on me while I was just trying to rest.
It hurts. Not just my body — though I am often sore and cold — but something deeper. My heart. I know I’m not beautiful. I know I’m not perfect. But I still want to be loved. I still dream of a place where I’m wanted. I dream of curling up on someone’s lap, purring quietly as their hand strokes my back. I dream of a voice that calls my name — not with disgust, but with love. A home. A forever home.
Sometimes, when the wind is soft and the night is quiet, I sit very still and listen to the stars. I imagine they’re whispering to me, telling me not to give up. That maybe, just maybe, someone will come. Someone who doesn’t care that I’m blind. Someone who won’t hate me for being poor. Someone who sees with their heart.
I’ve met kind humans before — very few, but I remember them. A girl once gave me a piece of bread. An old man let me sleep under his porch during the rain. Those small kindnesses live in me like warm embers in a frozen world. They give me just enough hope to take another step. To keep going. To survive one more day.
So please, if you see me — or one like me — don’t look away. Don’t throw things or call me ugly. Don’t say I’m worthless. I didn’t choose to be blind. I didn’t choose to be abandoned. I’m just trying to live. I’m just trying to feel loved… even once.
People hate me because I’m blind and poor. But I still believe… that not all people are like that. Maybe someone out there will love a cat like me. Not for what I look like, but for the love I have to give.
I may be blind… but I still see with my heart. And it’s waiting — wide open.
