my ghost, /ɡōst/ noun, a nebulous image, apparition of my past turned form

a ghost haunts my room.

he drifts around, trailing lost memories like gauzy fog, fingers light over the shelves of my bookcase, wood creaking and groaning under his touch

i don’t speak.

he digs things up, sometimes

when i’m tired and the world spins in concentric circles crooked in the space of my perception. he pulls out a dented flute-piece, one of three, rusted a little at the edges and inside stained with grime, and i do not know where the blue velvet-lined case went

sometimes he hands me scraps of paper

i don’t take them

not usually.

he pushes them at me, crinkles and crumples the paper, rolling it in his palms and bringing them closer to me, insistent

he is careful with me

when i am fragile and breakable, the storm thundering and pounding at my window, he screams back at the rain and clenches his fists, looking for all the world like a marble statue turned to fury

and he is an angry, angry ghost

mostly passive and mostly inflamed

swallowed by the idea of vengeance

and i do not know where he came from

i tell myself this lie every time i see him, shoulders slumped in a downwards slope, face drawn and exhausted

he wraps the trailing edges of his nonexistence around visitors, guests covered in shrouds of his wisps, faces obscured by past memories and past mistakes

i look at them and i see him

his grin lurking behind, in front, above, below their bones and muscle and tissue

he flouts his insubstantiality in front of their plain realness, and i sometimes cannot tell the difference, though he lovingly works flaws into his flickering illusions for me to see

he doesn’t try to fool me, he just tries to trick me

knowing the things he creates for me to watch will only last for so long

and that i often am and often am not clever enough to figure out before time’s up, the alarm clock ringing and my ghost crying out that i must be faster, else i won’t solve the problems he gives me and he will just be left with problems, problems, problems

i don’t know why he plays games with me

but he is a part of me

a haunting that leans over my shoulders and whispers forgotten fragments of my life into my ears, telling me news and olds

he is a bleeding heart, literal and metaphorical

his shoulders steeped in crimson and his eyes closed, dripping thick red tears

i cannot fix him, for i cannot fix myself

and thus he remains

the ghost that haunts my room.

The End

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