#ghostface
the credits haven’t even started to roll,
but i’m already checking the locks on the doors.
i’ve learned to watch you the way i watch the final girl—
with my breath held tight and my eyes half-narrowed,
waiting for the music to shift into a minor key.
life is a horror movie
and the first rule of the genre is simple:
never fall in love with someone in the first act.
you can't get attached to the characters
when the heart is just a low-budget prop,
something red and messy to be left on the floor
before the first commercial break.
i see you standing there, all wide-eyed and "main character,"
thinking your backstory makes you bulletproof,
but i’ve seen enough sequels to know that "forever"
is just the silence before the killer stops playing with his food.
don’t get used to the way they take their coffee
or the specific pitch of their midnight laugh,
because the script has a way of thinning the cast
right when the lighting gets atmospheric.
i see you standing in the kitchen,
vulnerable in the glow of the open fridge,
and i want to tell you to step away from the window.
we aren’t prepared for a plot twist
that leaves the protagonist standing alone in the rain
while the siren lights paint the driveway red.
we’re all just "guest starring" in each other’s tragedies.
i try to keep my heart behind a triple-locked door,
treating your touch like a suspicious noise in the basement—
something to be investigated with caution,
something that might disappear if i blink too long.
i’m terrified of the scene where the house goes quiet,
and I realize i’m the only one left in the frame,
holding a bowl of popcorn and a handful of ghosts.
it’s cleaner this way—watching you through a lens,
predicting the moment the shadow moves behind you.
i won't be the one screaming when the blade falls;
i’ll be the one who already knew the twist,
sitting in the back row,
waiting for the lights to come up on an empty theater.
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 10:24 PM UTC