ghost
/gowst/

1.   The bleached whale teeth of your bones covered in layers of papery humanity, the blue of your Veins as they lie, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

2.   Static white and less, a phantom haunting your own skin. You were murdered, murdered, murdered by this coffin of a house.

3.   Dustless and fearfilled; can the dead die again?

Nobody warned me
about the sound of skeleton laughter,
ribcages shaking like bells,
airless chuckles cracking the hot night,
slipping through the closet slats
into my skull.

It was fine with just Meg:
supermodel cheekbones,
a jaw that could steal my name.
We shared the closet,
my jackets brushing her collarbone.
"your flesh prison
can't wear that many anyway."

Then came her sister,
then another,
until nine of them
rattled teacups at 2 A.M.,
dripping through the floorboards.
My shirts fled to the hall.
I dream of thunder
that silences their bones.

They call it a ****** of crows -
but what waits in the dark,
rattling its teeth
for the last of you,
is a plague of skeletons.

(ACT ONE: DRAFT)

STAGE DIRECTIONS
Basement.
Dim bulb swaying.

Center stage:
A battered leather wooden chest,
straps and buckles cinched
like a ship at storm.

Upstairs: (Built out upper stage)
A woman, white hair in soft pins,
her chair angled toward a radio
hissing static and old jazz.

She eats quietly.
Spoon tracing circles in her bowl.

CHARACTER NOTES

THE WOMAN – seventy-eight
hands like river stones,
her face a map of soft summers
and lonely winters.

THE CHEST –

Unseen:
heavy with letters, photographs,
perfumed silk,
a man’s pressed shirts,
and the ache of two bodies
that once loved
without mercy.

Seen:
Its sides swell -
the subtle shape of a man’s hands
behind it's leather,
pressing out,
clasping the straps.
Fingers circle
the locked buckles.

THE PAST LOVER – Voice only.
He exists as vibration
inside surrounding wood,
breathing
in response to the Woman.

SCENE PROGRESSION

Lights fade up.
The chest breathes.

Pause.

Buckles flex.
A groan,
like an old stair.

She glances down
through the floorboards.
She does not rise.

(radio goes silent)

Eyes closed,
she whispers:
Hush now.
I remember.
I remember you.

And then
nothing.

Her silence
is part of the score.

ACTION CUE

The chest swells.
Wood stretching.

A strap snaps.

A letter flutters
up the stairs,
as if seeking oxygen
and lands
at her feet.

She rises.
Snatches letter;
fetches rope, duct tape,
an old belt.

Descends the stairs.

Ties the memory down again.

Her hands shake,
but she is precise,
as if dressing a wound.

She ascends.
Sits back in her chair.
Spoon in hand,
mid‑air.

Radio on:
a soft trumpet solo,
weary with promise.

The chest downstairs
begins to thump
and inhale.

A low whisper
seeps through the floorboards:
her name.

Her hands tremble.
She does not answer.

The chest exhales once,
long, hollow,
full throated,

and the house answers.

FADE TO BLACK

Only the sound
of her spoon
falling
to the basement floor.

I am cursed with the affliction of kindness.
And I will haunt this earth until I have seen the end of all things beautiful.
I prepare my epitaph, so that I may visit my own grave—
and mourn every piece of myself that I changed.

No matter what I do, it is not enough.
I was not enough.
I don't think I ever could be enough—
not for any of you.
But I still tried, didn't I?
I still try.

Perhaps this is all I was meant for—
to love until I disappear.

How cruel, to exist in a body that is hated.
Not smart enough, not pretty enough.
But forever kind enough.

I’ve seen her once in shattered dreams,
A flicker drowned in silent screams.
She passed me by—untouched, unknown,
Yet carved her name into my bone.

She never looked, she never saw
The way her absence split my jaw.
I stitched her face from scraps of air,
And filled the gaps with quiet prayer.

She was never mine—
Not even close.
But something in her
Felt like home.

I don’t know her,
Not the way I need.
But still she haunts
My every plead.

She walks through me in every crowd,
Too bright, too soft, too far, too loud.
I memorized the way she breathes
Though she’s never even spoken to me.

I’ve built a shrine from passing glances,
A temple forged from phantom chances.
One smile and I’d lose my mind—
But she keeps her gaze,
And leaves me blind.

If she knew—
Would she run?
Would she scream?
Would she come undone?

She isn’t mine.
She never will be.
But still I wait
Where no one sees me.

I never touched her...
But some nights,
I still wake up
smelling her on my hands.
Her lips still burn on my neck.

She breathes through the cracks in me.
She dances in static and screen glow.
She’s never come home—
but I never let her go.

You gave me a boat—
A boat made of paper.
You painted it blue,
I preferred green.
You poor soul, couldn’t have known

Oh, You gave me a boat—
I said it was perfect,
And I knew it was paper,
Yes, I swear I did.

But I put it in the water,
Even quickly named it June,
A quiet way to remember
The day you forgot soon

And I knew it was melting—
And I know you did too

But god gave me a heart
Gave you one too
Though yours is for beating
And mine is to feel


Still—
I went in the boat,
Oh, I didn’t want fighting.
A few feet later,
I felt the water flow.

I swam to the shore,
And yes, I saw you laughing—
But still, I swam to you,

For I could not call for help
Help from the warm murky water
No I will not anger you.
And I didn’t choose to drown,
For I cannot bear it.

Bear to see you suffer,
Like I would have for you.
Though you do not deserve it,
And not for forever— I hope
I swim back to you

How do you forgive a ghost?

They speak no words.
They never say sorry.
They can never look you in the eye. 
They never stay long enough to watch how much it hurts.

You disappeared from my life.
Without fixing the chaos you caused.

I write letters I’ll never say.
Say goodbyes no one will ever hear.
Cry tears no one will ever wipe away.

You’re a ghost, but your fingerprints will never leave my skin.
You slammed the door shut, but your name still haunts the room.

How do you forgive someone that was never there?

You vanished before I learned to scream.
Now I only whisper.
Whispering “I forgive you”
Whispering broken promises, shattering before they were ever made.

You were supposed to stay.
You etched promises into my skin then peeled them off when my skin became too hard.
Like a coward.
Like a ghost.
I didn’t get a goodbye.
I didn’t get an explanation.
All I got was a lie.
Perfectly crafted by you.

I trusted you.
“She said she would come back.”
“She told me that I was the only thing that mattered.”
The vicious thoughts echoed in my head, swirling around like the wind in a storm.

I scream into empty spaces, hoping it’ll give me closure.
I cry in lone rooms, hoping someone will comfort me.

How do you forgive someone that never existed?

I searched for you everywhere.
But you're gone.
You left as soon as the opportunity arose.
I know you’ll never come back.

Maybe one day I’ll forget who you were.
But right now, I grieve you like a ghost who never died.

I mourn the person I once knew.
I mourn the memories we shared.
I mourn my love for you.

Because at one point, you were all that mattered.
Until you tore yourself from me.

The silence you left still screams at me.
Filling the air with words you never said.

I rehearsed every word I would say to you.
Every scream.
Every cry.
Every conversation.
I practiced every day.
And yet, they never entered the lonely atmosphere.

You took pieces of me I never knew.
I know that I’ll never get them back.
I search for the missing puzzle pieces in other people.
But they never seem to fit the hole in my heart.
In my soul.
In my identity.

Instead, I replaced them with hope.
Hatred.
Resentment.
Because I gave up on waiting for you.

Maybe you weren’t the ghost.
Maybe I am.
Maybe that’s why no one ever seems to notice.

I hate that no one else sees you.
I hate how you only appear in the mirror.
I hate how you look like me.
I hate how, in the end, it’s just me looking back. 

I wonder if ghosts can forgive too.
Do you miss me?
Do you even still care?
Or am I the one that’s haunting the past?
Am I the one who vanished years ago?
Or maybe, just maybe, am I still holding on to the little hope I have left?
Hoping you’ll come back?

Maybe I don’t forgive you.
Maybe forgiveness isn’t something for the dead.

I walked this town with madness,
Where streets once full of gladness—
And I cried into the heavenly sky
That no sadness shall ever blow by
Upon this town of madness.

For all the churches and their bells
May ring warning about this hell,
But no bell can reach the drinking well
That drove this town to madness.

I turned around seeking that sound
That haunted every morrow—
That ripply wave that intertwines
And beckons us to sorrow.

I stood amidst this desolate town
That wore the well as its crown,
And every building knelt broken down
To hail the King of Madness.

bare, a beast of all sorts,
the kind, unknown, unnamed,
desire, perhaps, or even the want.

peeling back layers upon layers,
haunting like venom dressed in velvet,
freaky, misdirected, and led upon.

devotion and lust drink from the same glass,
the champagne poured in by the hands that sculpted brass
into silver,
now mistaken for diamond shine
razor sharp, pricking at the slightest touch,
reaching all the way behind to grasp
the thin fiber of reality that separates.

distance barely existing,
trembling hands trying to pull away the curtains
that hide behind the mesh covering the eyes—

like silk over barbed wire,
perfume resembling the stench of blood,
metallic, almost glittering upon a caress.

curling upon the sheets like smoke in a fire grate,
in spirit, in being, in a soul tie so strong,
the red string pulled taut—

circling the fingers, going all the way up the arm,
slithering and coiling like a snake around the neck,
possession lacking in need.

war report disguised as a love note,
signed in lip stain.

warmth where the danger lives,
close to the flames that can destroy whole,
turned into ash, not mere blackened soot—

violet seize amidst grey sample.

rotten, wholly spoilt,
always a dance,
circling around, close—oh so close,
yet so far.

the truth about forever,
which exists in eternity,
for the while the self survives—

cherry-soaked bodies
living below the ransacked lair.
unspoken, the eyes connect,
few faded visions filled with anomalies,

and a step further up ahead.

grip loose, just way too loose,
accept the chances at running,
escaping right after the wisp of contact—

entangled fingers slipping as the light dims,
furthermore, the radio in the very corner
plays the same track from the first ever night—

with or without you,
don’t touch—don’t glance, don’t do.

torn between staying to take away the soul
or leave behind a heart wrapped in a ribbon.

the blackening veins, cinematic mugshot,
before ties around the wrists and eyes up at the skies—

give up—give up—breathe in, let be.

+92, look at me—do you hear it too?
the sound of bells, calling upon all the wanderers,
the bare ones, yet to hold any other.

too generic, exceptionally quiet,
concentric circles of the eyes,
tired of novocaine—

about all that you don’t see,
put the **** away.

solely a white, white lie,
blazing remembral speaks in starlight.

numbing ache around where the fingerprints remain,
tunnel vision, staring right at you,
at the way you move.

the last ticket, the last trip—
no turning back.

dripping cocoa down, round from the ceiling,
the mirrors speaking monstrosity,
reflections sharing a breath—

en route, in the midst of almost,
leaving behind all casualties,

end this trip—
while going down and low,
and back into the graves where we slipped out from.