You exist all around me.
You exist in and around my bedroom,
and you sleep with me at night.
You walk with me to my car when it's dark outside, and you force me to feel the darkness,
even when others tell me that it's impossible to feel.
You touch me when I dress and undress,
with the doors closed and the windows shut.
Your ghostly fingers graze the most vulnerable places on my body:
my neck, my wrists, and the space behind my knees.
You watch me from the inside of my mind,
keeping me up on the nights that I need sleep the most.
You whisper to me, telling me to look harder at night, listen longer in silence,
feel more with my hands when I can't see with my eyes.
You make your presence known when the strong winds of the night move my house;
the floorboards creak and settle, and the house hums. Or is that you?
Is that you lulling me to sleep?

It's as if you're protecting me from yourself,
because when I see you and hear you and feel you, I sense a guardian.
But I remember, with a rush of hurt, that you brought me here.
You left me here.
You are not an angel, but a ghost that lingers and haunts me.
You force me to fight you off, even when I sometimes want you to stay;
it is a paradox that leaves me empty, but drowning.

You are an angel and a demon, an ally and an enemy.
If you are really there, as I feel that you are, listen to me
as I have always listened to you:
Torment somebody else.