like dead lilacs in chipped ceramic

to the person i used to be. 

i don't know who you were,
don't think even you knew who you were. 

love hurts. 
love will always hurt, 
and happiness is a pain that pangs in your chest
and never goes away

so be prepared
because the good things always come hand-in-hand
with bad things 
like a twisted carousel or something

and you'll always miss her. 
always miss everything about her, 
about all of them
everyone you ever fell in love with 
though they ne'er did you

like the necklace that clinks gently against your collarbone, 
pink square of glass
given to you by a dead woman

she was kind, but so tired all the time after the chemotherapy 
and even walking her dog every night didn't help
and you miss her, don't stop missing her

(because she was the only one who ever really believed in you)

(what does it say about you that the only ones who ever do always die)

and miss is an interesting word
it implies loss
but sometimes you miss the person someone used to be
or how you don't think they were that mean before
except now they've turned bitter and biting with the wind

the ghosts don't leave, 
they never will, 
so you might as well accept them. 

you open your arms to them every night anyways, 
lying in bed with the darkness pushing you down
and hold them close like lucky charms against your skin
as though they lie next to you, 
companionship lying looking at the stars with you

the ghosts just grow in number

and one day you will be less human and more ghost
and you will be consumed by the person you aren't anymore
and everyone who left you far, far behind

so just be warned, i suppose. 
there's nothing you can do to stop it. 

one day, you will be someone else's ghost. 

The End

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