- Poetry -
I wish I could compare myself
to a ghost haunting a home
that I’m some tortured
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
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.
I am flesh
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.