Tell me there aren't ghosts.
Tell me our business must remain unfinished, our messages undelivered.
Tell me every breath we've ever taken will amount to nothing once our hearts give out and our bodies decay.
Tell me the air is just the air and the shadows are just shadows, that I've never heard a whisper that meant anything more than the wind rustling the trees outside my window.
Explain sunsets and shooting stars, explain spring daisies and summer foxgloves.
Or stop.
Stop your cynicism and your pessimism, stop your rationality and your scientific explanations.
I know that acid raid is caused by CO2 in the atmosphere, and that rainbows are just an illusion, but what could it possibly hurt to see them as something more, something otherworldly, something magic.
We all need a bit of magic, and maybe you need it most of all.
So I know that my grandfather still wishes me well before tests and scoffs when we put flowers on his grave.
I know that when my dog barks at "nothing" she is barking at the spirits you're too blind too see, too stubborn to accept.

There is a ghost in my room and she takes care of me.
Maybe she doesn't even exist, but maybe I need to believe that she does.
Maybe you should let me.

There are constellations between your teeth and you have starlight wrapped around your tongue, there is moonlight in your eyes but sunlight in your smile
Every time you breath you inhale glitter and oxygen and powdered sugar, the scent of grass and strawberries and hope
Flowers bloom between your ribs and wind through the joints in your hips, your knees, your wrists
There is a whole menagerie in your stomach, butterflies and pelicans and Bengal tigers
Your skin is crushed velvet, silk and lace, encasing a skeleton of steel and iron, silver filigree
Your hands are soft as cotton, rose petals, strong as the will of all your ancestors.
When you die you will melt back into the earth, disintegrate and fall back to where you came from
You will be absorbed back into the atmosphere and the universe will swallow you up.
It will rearrange your atoms and produce something completely you but completely different.
You are one of a kind, you are the entire universe.
You will never be again, but you will never stop being.

They say we're the lucky ones and you scoff
But they're right;
We are the lucky ones.

The only hatred we face is from ourselves
Coating our frontal lobes and sticking
Dripping sickly sweet like honey down our throats
Encasing our vocal chords
Rotting us from the inside out.

The only hunger we face is self-inflicted
Fingers itching
Stomachs protesting
Disgust crawling over our skin and burrowing further into our flesh
Taking root
making itself comfortable.

We don't live in war-torn countries
Our scars should be from skinned knees and appendectomies.
Our bodies are littered with something far more sinister;
Shame takes the form of long sleeved shirts in summer.

We are the lucky ones.
We seem unwilling to accept that.

Syrup-coated smile
And a wildfire in your eyes;
Sugar rush kisses

When I close my eyes
I see dancing lights and stars
And you you you you

I am not in love
I probably never was
But maybe, almost

I am terrified
Of snakes and clowns and darkness
But mainly of you