Tag Archives: ghost

armless.

you always
smell
like fresh
laundry.

and now
you follow
me everywhere:
caress me
as i sleep;
cradle me
from the chill.

you still
smell
like fresh
laundry.

only your arms
are out of reach.

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dirty.

​and then
the dirty blood
began;
thick, gel-like
and brown.

it pooled in clots
and stained
his legs,
and ruined
the cloth.

draw it out;
do your time.
eventually,
peace will find you,
before a new facade.


phobia.

melting tar hair piled high,
cascading over
her soft, bronzed skin;

as she whispered
into the dark,
“i am scared of living.”

sharp eyes,
creating vivid shapes
and monochrome rainbows;

the ghost held her hand
as they sat in the dark,
“why are your hands so cold?”

simultaneous death and life;
simultaneous solitude and company;
the warm greeting of silence.

suddenly her chest is tight,
breathing shallow, he tells her,
“your lungs are drowning in sadness and grief.”

but where the ghost appeared,
now lies only a dark, rigid rock;
sturdy, unmoving, soundless.

she stayed for a while,
the rock did not move, but murmured,
“it is enough.”