Ghost Girl

[ghostgirl369]

Love letters from the universe

She is a hurricane of endless fascination, born speaking in wonder.

Mention crows, and somehow, forty minutes later, she is speaking of cross-stitched quotes on feather-down pillows, childhood fables few else know, and the mathematics of loneliness.

She asks questions the way forests grow roots— quietly, in every direction. Someone so captivated by living while carrying so much evidence that living hurts.

She stops mid-sentence because embers dancing in firelight remind her of dust caught in the sun of a childhood attic long forgotten.

Talking to her feels like being pulled- through rooms, through cemeteries, past cobwebs on tombstones, a silk-spun thread stuck to your sleeve, as if every thing has been waiting to lead you somewhere.

The strangest part— she has no idea what it is like to meet her.

She can calculate the distance between stars,

hear the echoes left in old artifacts,

but ask her

why someone might love her—

and suddenly,

the brightest mind cannot solve the simplest proof.

because meeting her is realizing

the universe has always been writing love letters

to itself.

Image by EvgeniT from Pixabay

[ghostgirl369]

Phantom Sounds

picture frames line the walls—

a measurement

that time still passes.

each day

buried by another

until dates blur together.

a time capsule

falls from the wall.

glass shatters—

the nimble hands

of nurses

flush saline

over blood-stained

shards embedded

in your skin

the crunch

of iced coffee

dried in your hair

I am back there-

then here

frame glass in disarray

on the floor

scrubbing

phantom blood stains

from your knees.

[ghostgirl369]

A Tree's Scream

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

emptiness swallows my screams

I am still sorting through the wreckage— jagged glass embedded in my knees, crushed metal cages me in, measuring what is gone by what will not grow back.

I am the tree lying in the undergrowth

the absence of observation does not soften the damage in the aftermath there is still debris there is still me.

I am the tree, or maybe only the space where it should be trying to remember if I ever stood at all

the forest does not need permission to destroy— nor an audience to watch.

[ghostgirl369]

My House Was Always On Fire

where my thumb meets my index finger, there is a jagged white line.

i was five.

or maybe six.

or maybe that was simply the time.

dad had shown me how to cut a bagel before work took him from home

mom couldn’t be woken before one - unless the house was on fire.

rule broken the week before.

wooden spoon.

bruised skin.

as blood stained my fingers

I was only a room engulfed in flames

red soaked towel.

waited four hours to clot.

the scar a reminder

people don’t believe a girl who cried “fire” too many times.

[ghostgirl369]

Looking Glass

at first you love me for it—

the way I make you look back at yourself and see something worth wanting.

you mistake me for the lake. lean in, call it love,

because the reflection leans back, because the image knows how to look holy.

but it’s a mirage. you don’t love me. you love how pretty you look being adored.

but stay too long, look too close, and something shifts behind the glass.

I don’t know what you see— only that your face changes, only that the room gets colder, only that you start looking at me like I put it there.

whatever surfaced, whatever crawled up from the dark, whatever part of yourself you thought was buried deep enough—

I don’t know its name. I only know you saw it in me.

and I don’t know how to stop reflecting, don’t know how to become softer glass.

so you start hating the mirror for showing you what was already there— standing in front of you,

until all you could see was everything you hate about yourself.

[ghostgirl369]

Looking Glass

at first you love me for it—

the way I make you look back at yourself and see something worth wanting.

you mistake me for the lake. lean in, call it love,

because the reflection leans back, because the image knows how to look holy.

but it’s a mirage. you don’t love me. you love how pretty you look being adored.

but stay too long, look too close, and something shifts behind the glass.

I don’t know what you see— only that your face changes, only that the room gets colder, only that you start looking at me like I put it there.

whatever surfaced, whatever crawled up from the dark, whatever part of yourself you thought was buried deep enough—

I don’t know its name. I only know you saw it in me.

and I don’t know how to stop reflecting, don’t know how to become softer glass.

so you start hating the mirror for showing you what was already there— standing in front of you,

until all you could see was everything you hate about yourself.

[ghostgirl369]

A Pure Substance

they always told me my name meant pure.

i spent years asking—

pure what?

joy? chaos? noise? of heart?

a pure substance is simply one thing.

unchanged.

uncontaminated.

each person changes my state.

every room alters my chemistry.

some leave me clear.

some leave sediment settling quietly at the bottom.

some evaporate and leave only traces.

grief becomes a solvent, holding what should never have been mine.

shame settles to the bottom in layers.

i spend years separating what belongs to me from what was poured into me.

anger transforms me— a catalyst, speeding every reaction while remaining apparently unchanged.

love expands me to hold more than seems physically able.

silence dissolves, absorbed into language.

people misidentify me because i am never the same twice.

they mistake adaptation for absence.

but water is still water

whether it becomes ice, steam, rain, river, or ocean.

its state changes. its chemical make up remains.

maybe that is what pure meant all along.

not untouched.

complete in itself

no matter what the world adds to me.

i can always return to myself.

[ghostgirl369]

A Pure Substance

they always told me my name meant pure.

i spent years asking—

pure what?

joy? chaos? noise? of heart?

a pure substance is simply one thing.

unchanged.

uncontaminated.

each person changes my state.

every room alters my chemistry.

some leave me clear.

some leave sediment settling quietly at the bottom.

some evaporate and leave only traces.

grief becomes a solvent, holding what should never have been mine.

shame settles to the bottom in layers.

i spend years separating what belongs to me from what was poured into me.

anger transforms me— a catalyst, speeding every reaction while remaining apparently unchanged.

love expands me to hold more than seems physically able.

silence dissolves, absorbed into language.

people misidentify me because i am never the same twice.

they mistake adaptation for absence.

but water is still water

whether it becomes ice, steam, rain, river, or ocean.

its state changes. its chemical make up remains.

maybe that is what pure meant all along.

not untouched.

complete in itself

no matter what the world adds to me.

i can always return to myself.

[ghostgirl369]

Ghost funeral

empty eulogies, stolen years no flowers for potential forgotten obituary of made-up futures

i have spent years— mourning things you cannot see

ghost-limb grief, bone deep scattering ashes, leaving no grave markers

[ghostgirl369]

A Pure Substance

they always told me my name meant pure.

i spent years asking—

pure what?

joy? chaos? noise? of heart?

a pure substance is simply one thing.

unchanged.

uncontaminated.

each person changes my state.

every room alters my chemistry.

some leave me clear.

some leave sediment settling quietly at the bottom.

some evaporate and leave only traces.

grief becomes a solvent, holding what should never have been mine.

shame settles to the bottom in layers.

i spend years separating what belongs to me from what was poured into me.

anger transforms me— a catalyst, speeding every reaction while remaining apparently unchanged.

love expands me to hold more than seems physically able.

silence dissolves, absorbed into language.

people misidentify me because i am never the same twice.

they mistake adaptation for absence.

but water is still water

whether it becomes ice, steam, rain, river, or ocean.

its state changes. its chemical make up remains.

maybe that is what pure meant all along.

not untouched.

complete in itself

no matter what the world adds to me.

i can always return to myself.

[ghostgirl369]

Shapeshifter

my chameleon eyes learned independent motion— tracking threat and need.

tenderness called for pink cloud skies.

truth demanded blinding white.

a heavy room expected pale grey-blue.

when collapse threatened— kaleidoscope.

all fracture, all motion,

arranging myself around the sharp parts so no one had to admit there was damage.

they see how well i blend.

not how often i disappear.

no longer wondering what color am i when no one is looking?

instead asking

when the room is empty and no one needs saving—

who arrives?

the creature underneath it all is still waiting for a place that requires no camouflage.

[ghostgirl369]

a part of your world

i still visit their world often it’s just like i remember

same streets same stories

except me

when i visit they hand me brouchers point out landmarks

remember when you- back then you -

postcard versions of me of who i used to be

old habits and routines no consideration for growth

i attempt to share one of my wonders

spoken over and ignored my world stays unexplored

no one asks for directions the plane ticket never bought

oh the wonders i would share from the window seat beside me.