starting this feels like calling Bloody Mary into the mirror the eighth and ninth times. Fuck it, you haunt me already, you might as well appear right behind me in the mirror.

you died that night you called me, dying and sleepy and cursing me in the backseat of your car. you died in my world for the last time. you were hanging onto the edges of my life while i was just trying to move on. and then you vanished and left a deep pit in my gut. and ever since, you just haunt me.

it's the little creaks and whispers in the middle of the night. it's the uneasy feeling i get for no good reason. i'm moving on from this house, happy to be away from the ghosts. the funny thing is, the ghosts i thought i was getting away from are long gone. You ran them off when you lived in these halls and spaces, and now it's just you that haunts here. You're beneath the paint, deepest of hues. You're scrawled in the bedboard of a little girl that wishes you'd just "come back." You smells, your sounds, your leftover graces, all over the place.

And you're still haunting me as well. in the chill that runs up my spine when i start to get close to someone that's not exactly right, not the one. you haunt those interactions. when i try to read Miranda July's fucking amazing short stories. the way you haunt those words, I can barely read them. It's the way i know you'd write, if you finally had the courage to let us read your words. You follow me around some times, pass by the corner of my eye, remind where you've been and who you were. My friends see it on me sometimes, the ones that know me well and dare to ask. If i've had enough to drink i'll even admit it. it's not that you're controlling my life or suffocating me, but shades of you are present. you're still haunting.

and the music, all around me, you'll always be there. even after you're long gone, you'll still haunt the music. there's no need to play oddly-chosen melodies for me at 2 in the morning, i hear you all the time.

i was going to write this in my journal, the old one that i've barely touched. the Lest We Forget journal that my mom bought for me when i was in college. The one with pages that i know i can't tear out. But i can't find it, and after a bit of a search, i decide that you stole it or hid it. That's when i decided you really are a ghost, an apparition that i can use as a scapegoat for whatever odd thing is out of place. it's especially suiting when those are things that i think you would have done if you could just float in unnoticed. the gremlin in the system that we just have to learn to deal with.

and then i realized that i'm probably a ghost in your world as well, haunting you when you just want to be left alone. I'm the one that creaks the stairs when you're just trying to drift off to sleep. the one that seems to have hidden all of the little things that you'd really like to find.

this is not a death i would have chosen for either of us. I'd leave you be and move on to my afterlife if i had control over it.

Aw ain't it just like the rain?
Counting Crows - the Ghost in You

0 Comments:

Post a Comment