Slowly becoming the worst possible version of myself,
the ghost of Christmas past looks at me from every angle,
in disgust.
All the phantoms are just different types of me,
with different core functions all rubbing up against each other.
They're just trying to set fire to the original one.
Smoke her out.
The person who was once a child and believed everything
that made the world feel like it was full of white magic.
Convinced that there were fairies in the yard,
and that there was always a friend running along side the school bus.
There was, too, once another girl and a little older
who found out that she could draw,
and that when she did so a passion would hold her mind and her hand.
Her world introduced her to music and she sang,
only alone and loved it.
She has only ever sang alone,
so it was impossible to hear her real voice.
That's when the girl she was went away,
and hid.
Got really good at hiding, from everything and behind it all.
This fool with tired eyes has no right to use them,
doesn't lift a finger and yet yawns at the first sight of dawn.
Yawns in the face of the sun all day, and whispers with the moon,
all night.
Microwaves every meal and eats the radiation like a beast,
because there is nothing natural about her anymore.
She has become the same plastic that she uses and abuses,
and is suffocating inside her own demise.
There are slower, much slower ways
to end your own life.
Dying is a threat to live life when life is treating you with death.
It scares those who can't bring themselves
to rediscover their own core.
The white magic.
The child.
The hands that had passion.