I thought these ghosts
were long gone.
I thought I threw them out--
evicted them from my head--
but I was wrong.
They came back to play.
About a month ago
they grabbed onto a nearby shard of glass
and etched their way out of my arm.
Six of them.
Six times
that glass ripped my skin open.
six times
I ripped my skin open.
And I loved it. . . .
every
scratch
made me smile.
They're beautiful.
The evil ghosts,
the ghosts that cry
and ghosts that are mean
and ghosts that are depressed
are gone.
Only the ghosts that laugh were left behind.