after swearing you would never hurt her
you discarded her along with all the other pretty hopeless things
not broken (NEVER broken)
but anachronistic, paradoxical, incongruous
a past that won’t leave the present.

glimmering tears falling in the dark
unseen, muffled, tracing the fossils of his breath on her cheek.

a sequin dress on the living room floor
with a naked moon child sticking a head out the window
still suffocating.

eyeliner wings searching for halos
but turning up empty
knowing angels don’t exist in her world-
laughing at the thought.

when you, a ghost, moved towards the light
(even though you see a new light every day-
never her, always something, still not enough)
you left her in the blackness of your discarded dreams
like a tool you had no more use for.

ghost stories are meant to scare little girls into sleeping with guns and walking with keys interlaced between fumbling fingers
and as he fades into that ghost from her story
she will try to sleep.

disbelief in ghosts
does not stop them from haunting your dreams
nor stop you from becoming one yourself.

she’s stuck in a timeline that moved on without her
watching like a ghost as life around her naively continues (how? do they still believe?)
hand over mouth to prevent escaped screams
phone in pocket to prevent escaped words

he must not know.
admitting she is still here
is admitting she is pretty hopeless
on her own.