- Poetry - I wish I could compare myself
to a ghost haunting a home a sanitorium a grave; that I’m some tortured wispy thing knowable only in fragments and pieces, by recording systems and cameras, by inexplicable chills and freezes. Because it would be easier to say that I’m a spectral veil, that others experience my haunting in cackles in shinings in sightings. It would be easier to say that I’m a half-thing – a troubled spirit – caught somewhere between whatever life and afterlife you please; that if I could only solve some riddle or find my purpose, I’d be released. But when I encounter walls I can’t walk through them, and I don’t have the luxury of an ethereal plane to brood in. No. I am flesh and bone and blood and the bloody bits of home that burrow under my skin, that are wooden splinters and metal slivers migrating toward my corporeal heart. And if I don’t do something very real, they’ll surely tear me apart. I am more likely to end up the meat on your plate, than some spooky phantom nonsense fanatics try to capture and chase to improve TV viewer rates. |
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May 2020
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