My stomach does that thing—
you know, when the ghost
rests a hand there.
Not a hit.
Just a hush,
and fingernails.
Like it never left.
Like I’m the one
who forgot to feed it.
It’s always at dawn.
Or mid-laugh.
Or in line at the dollar store—
buying nail polish I’ll chew off by Tuesday
and an eyelash curler,
just in case he sees me
from across a decade.
Then you paraglide in—
a salesman who knew I’d be home.
And the floor remembers
what I worked so hard to forget.
And I gasp—like I tripped.
But I didn’t.
I remembered.
I remembered
the ghost
you left me to raise alone.
Like:
“Hi. Just passing through.
Don’t stress on my behalf.”
I nod.
And I don’t.
I keep chewing the same nail.
My eyelashes are curled.
My stomach still does that thing.
You know the one.
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC
My stomach does that thing—
you know, when the ghost
rests a hand there.
Not a hit.
Just a hush,
and fingernails.
Like it never left.
Like I’m the one
who forgot to feed it.
It’s always at dawn.
Or mid-laugh.
Or in line at the dollar store—
buying nail polish I’ll chew off by Tuesday
and an eyelash curler,
just in case he sees me
from across a decade.
Then you paraglide in—
a salesman who knew I’d be home.
And the floor remembers
what I worked so hard to forget.
And I gasp—like I tripped.
But I didn’t.
I remembered.
I remembered
the ghost
you left me to raise alone.
Like:
“Hi. Just passing through.
Don’t stress on my behalf.”
I nod.
And I don’t.
I keep chewing the same nail.
My eyelashes are curled.
My stomach still does that thing.
You know the one.
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