i become
very aware
of my chewing
when there
is somebody
**** in the
room.

you never feared death;
you embraced it.
you let the demons linger
in the background,
gnawing at faded photographs
and grey memories
of the years past-
when life was simple.
when recollection didn’t
fester up in open wounds,
and your darkest secrets
weren’t crawling in grungy corners
amongst the hidden truth.

you never feared death;
you welcomed it.
you allowed the beasts to creep
into the depths of your demise,
conjuring up nightmares within
the shadows of your subconscious,
screeching to be saved,
yet you can’t hear it.

you never feared death;
you accepted it.
you fell in love with
the anatomy of a gun,
how bullets gracefully leave
the barrel until
the entire magazine is gone-
and the glorious recoil.

but somehow,
there was no warning,
no bright yellow caution sign screaming,
“help me”
no “i love you’s,” and no “goodbyes”;
now,
all we have left is
the ghost of you-
the blood-stained wall,
the haunting images
of your bloodshot eyes
and limp carcass-
on a bed i used to sleep in.

sometimes i wonder
why it is
that when we love the wrong people
they tend to stay with us the longest

like ghosts only linger
when there is unrest
like the way you still remember
what they called you in ninth grade

some things were not made to be forgotten
the scars will always outlive the stitches
and closed wounds won’t always mean closure

muscle memory is how
our bodies remember the pain
our hearts still clench at the mention of his name

it reminds us that we are still human
still mortal
still alive

i don't believe in ghosts (or rather, i don't want to)

but there's no other name for my first love who still haunts me, the reason why there are still times that love feels like bile in my throat;

and there's no other name for the nightmares i wake up from in the middle of the night, this echo of what i was never able to do for others;

and there's no other name for the girl i killed years ago; this version of me i murdered, this version of me who was potentially much better;  

i don't believe in ghosts,

but i have a few and i've named them so that they can keep me company when no one else can,

(my favorite ghost, her name is regret; she's often seen with what if and could have been)

and i have stories to tell, not at camp fires, no, but maybe over the phone when it's three a.m in the morning and i've had one too many to drink,

(let me tell you about how he left me; let me tell you about how many times i watched my friends die in my sleep; let me tell you about the person i was before i decided i can't be her any longer)

and i can't get rid of them, no matter how hard i try.

(i throw salt and offer prayers but it doesn't seem to be effective)

everyone has ghosts whether they believe in them or not; ghosts they want to get rid of, ghosts they can't get rid of, ghosts that only they see, ghosts everyone else can point out;

who's yours?

I started going to counseling this week
because my plants started dying

the roots are all rotted
and the leaves are just slowly eating away at themselves

maybe my roots are rotten too
and I need to fix them before I start eating myself up