Warm blood, opaque skin.
Not exactly what you'd expect a ghost to look like.
But she floats through crowds unnoticed anyways.
A beating heart lost in the cacophony of life.
Her phone lays still on the table.
Screen dark, silent.
Her hand twitches beside it at the notification.
Then she places the screen against the wood.
Unanswered texts, cancelled plans.
You'd think she was in her grave.
But her grave is her bed.
Yet she's rotting anyways.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 11:17 AM UTC
I don't like mirrors.
And it's not because I don't like who looks back at me.
I know her eyes, they're mine after all.
But those eyes aren't alive.
The light never catches them.
I know her smile, because I've felt the warmth of another on my lips.
But that smile isn't real.
I don't think it ever was.
I know her hands, because I've felt the weight of the mirror with them.
But those hands shake.
They always seem to.
I know her scars, because I've seen the blood.
But those wounds have faded now.
They don't bleed anymore.
And I know her heart, it aches.
It breaks a little more every day.
But still she'll look in the mirror and smile.
Because a mirror can't reflect the pain she feels.
It can only reflect what it sees.
That's why I don't like mirrors.
They're liars of the prettiest kind.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 10:36 AM UTC