my ghost is skeletal and inexpressive and she lives in all the bathrooms of every house i've ever lived in. her voice turns into cement and her words taste bitter every time she tries to speak. we both don't know what happened to neither of us. inside, i swear, she has always been childlike, sweet, wide-eyed. i don't know what happened to both of us.
our childhood was never just skinned knees and sandcastles and we had to learn how to breathe without our lungs before even knowing how to walk.
my ghost is empty and dispirited and she still has dreams about hands gripping her wrists. we still flinch when people touch us and our past still finds ways to hold us by the throat. i don't know what happened to the both of us.
my ghost still wears her body like an apology and there are still fingerprints littered all over her like it's a crime scene.
my ghost chokes on cigarette smoke and she has always been taught how to swallow abuse and keep quiet. never shed light on it. we have always worn survival on our skin, trauma has always lived inside of our body.
my ghost is pedantic and dirty-mouthed but inside, she has always been pure and immaculate. she has never known the gentle touch and the circles beneath her eyes remind me of violets.
healing happened in the dirt, in the filth. survival has always been ugly, raw and brutal.
my ghost is savagely violent even though she has never been taught how to discover the anger that lies in her fingertips. her insides are all black. she's all bent-spine and she'll break your fingers if you ever try to lay hands on her again.
my ghost is bloodthirsty and barbaric even though she has always been soft inside.
she will no longer be gentle. she will no longer be quiet, serenely self-sacrificial. she will not be something forgiving.
my ghost is rage and flame and a tidal wave. watch her rebuild herself like a post-war city.
touch her again and you'll burn like ash to the ground.