Ghosts.

And then it crashes into me, eating my soul, crushing my insides. 


It was all a masterfully crafted web of lies.


Constant paranoia for the things I shouldn't have been paranoid about. Because it was all lies. (And I think know it still is.)

I'm choking on my words, I can't speak clearly. I beg for words, for sound to pass through my lips. I want to call you out. 

What happened to the three strike rule? (I'm positive you passed strike three a long time ago.)

Lies penetrate my skin, soaking my bones, filling me constantly with fear and distrust. 

My entire world crumbles around me and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know where to begin. 



(Remind me how to trust again, I forgot.)
 



Everything you said to me was a lie. It was all for your benefit. (Are you happy now? Are you excited and elated that your lies are backfiring on you?)

You know I know, (don't deny it), yet you keep lying to me. You keep at your game, spinning your web. Go ahead. I dare you. It won't affect me any longer; I'm through.


I know all I need to know from you; from your wrists to your ankles you're a liar who will never change.

There's Nothing Left Here. (Go Home.)

 

Death crawled through the window, slowly at first, slowly the whole way. Death crept upon your bed, Death looked at your face and Death smiled.

"At last..." Death whispered. It really was you.

(You shifted in your sleep, your dreams filled with clouds and the moon, with flocks of birds. You smiled quietly. You sighed.)

Death reached out for your hand, ready to take you away. You awoke, startled at the cold breeze across your fingertips. You stared Death in the face with a blank look, until you made the connection.

"No, I'm not ready," you cry, "I'm not ready," you whisper.

Death smiled, "Oh, but you are," she whispers softly, "You don't have a choice, you never did." The shadows fill the room to its breaking point. Thoughts rush through your head in a blur of color and light. What if Heaven doesn't want you? What if Hell won't take you either?

(Does it even matter? I can't remember.)

In a panic, you try to run. Running through the endless black tunnel Death has created, filled with Polaroids of your life, lining the walls in fading black and white, filling you up with nostalgia and regret. Your breath comes in gasps, you can't comprehend why it's happening now, there's still so much to do. 

Your feet carry you nowhere, they carry you away from Death, or maybe towards it?

(What's better anyway? I can't remember.)

Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back.

(I dare you to look back.)

"You can't run," Death calls in your left ear, "You can't run from me."

Don't look back, don't look back.

You look back. Death is there with a smile. You keep running, barely breathing. Barely moving anymore. The Polaroids on the shadow of a wall fade, the corners peeling, falling to the ground, the people in them disappearing before your eyes. You want to stop.

Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back. (You beg yourself.)

Your feet continue to carry you into the darkness. It's impenetrable, eating at your soul. 

(But do you even have a soul? I can't remember.)

"You can't outrun me," Death calls in a sickly sweet voice, "You never could."

From an Atlas of the Difficult World
Adrienne Rich 

  I know you are reading this poem
  late, before leaving your office
  of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
  in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
  long after rush-hour.  I know you are reading this poem
  standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
  on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
  across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
  I know you are reading this poem
  in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
  where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
  and the open valise speaks of flight
  but you cannot leave yet.  I know you are reading this poem
  as the underground train loses momentum and before running
                          up the stairs
  toward a new kind of love
  your life has never allowed.
  I know you are reading this poem by the light
  of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
  while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
  I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
  of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
  I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
  in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
  count themselves out, at too early an age.  I know
  you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
  lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
  because even the alphabet is precious.
  I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
  warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
                          hand
  because life is short and you too are thirsty.
  I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
  guessing at some words while others keep you reading
  and I want to know which words they are.
  I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
                          between bitterness and hope
  turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
  I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
                          left to read
  there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

The Aching In My Bones.

I'm afraid of the dark and of the shadows that always creep through my head at night. Of the feel of the scream that comes from deep within my bones, shattering my skull. The nightmares eat me alive, and I have nowhere to turn, not at 2:53 am. My heart beat keeps me awake and that's the only way I know I'm still alive.

(I'm terrified of the night.)

I'm afraid of forgetting how I'm 'supposed' to act, and how I can't always be that way. I'm afraid of the people that want to know my life story. I'm afraid of fake-people that can't fathom thinking for themselves.

(I'm terrified of expectation.)

I'm afraid I'll fall in love one day, and not realize it. I'm afraid I'll run from it. I'm afraid of first kiss stories that are inevitable. I'm afraid of commitment.

(I'm terrified of love.) 

I'm afraid of rejection and memories and shuffling of feet on carpet. I'm afraid of bricks and cement cracks and the thoughts in your brain. I'm afraid of college and being alone. I'm afraid of buses and the interstate.

(I'm terrified of reality.)

I'm afraid you'll forget me, while I lie awake at night, every night, wondering what you're doing. Wondering if you remember me.

(I'm terrified of being forgotten.)

 

"I just want to make art, read books, and find 

someone who likes me enough to kiss my face."

This is not about you.

I'm not thinking about you like feet think about walking, and girls think about talking, or anything like that. 
I'm not thinking about you like birds think about flight, and the tired think about the night, not at all like the stars think about shining. 

I'm not thinking about you at all. 

I'm not thinking about you like words think about books, or food thinks about cooks because cooks also think about heartbeats. 
I can't possibly be thinking about you the way hearts think about blood, or the way they think about love that doesn't even exist they way they want it to. 

I'm not thinking about you at all. 

I'm not thinking about you like clocks think about the past, and the way they think about the future.
I'm not thinking about you like pillows think about dreaming, and souls think about sleeping, and fires think about wood.


I'm not thinking about you at all.

I would never dream of thinking about you the way fingers think about typing, and pens think about ink, all trying to make words that might make the reader think and forget who they are trying to not think about. 
I'll keep not thinking about you, not thinking about you the way paint thinks about canvas and paint brushes that are white. 

I won't think about you at all.

I'm not thinking about you at all.








Except I'm lying.

“Then, out of nowhere, a flock of birds flew by the window, extremely fast and incredibly close.  Maybe twenty of them.  Maybe more.  But they also seemed like just one bird, because somehow they all knew exactly what to do.”

--Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.

Sew my lips shut, rip my heart out.

"You don't know what love is, you're just a teenager."

Lie.

"You can only be in love with one person at a time."

Lie.

"If you love him, you'll never let him go."

Lie.

You knew nothing. You know everything. And I fell, hard. I learned through lies and regret and hate. I learned the difficult way. I found it within the burnt rubble and ashes -- all that was left of the wall surrounding my heart.

After learning to let go, to finally escape the tragedy and the heartache that is inevitable, I rebuilt the walls. I made sure they were brick and solid and protecting. I was positive I'd never fall again. I was sure they were perfect this time, with no cracks, no weaknesses. Not after last time. The walls were finished, and I was fine. I was perfectly fine.

Until him. I hardly know him, yet I can't stop thinking about him and what I do know. He is devastatingly beautiful, and I can't get my mind to spit him out, to make me hate him. 

He found the weakness in my wall, the last brick I never managed to fit properly. After slowly making his way in, he broke me from the inside out. So I fall. 

And I can't stop.