Ghosts brush their fingers on ours
As if we wouldn’t notice
As if we wouldn’t be scared.
Sometimes I feel like I’m one of them
Or their enemy - robotic
Flashing, slurring, whizzing around
I have no heart to feel hurt with.

When he acted like I had killed him on purpose, I cried
I cried for what could’ve been, for the piano keys, for the honeybees.
He said he likes to torture me, I wonder if it’s real
A pretty man’s need to be seen….
With these fragmented eyes I cannot see.