Let’s say I was born and then I died but I got stuck –
an unalive thing caught up in flesh.
Let’s say I’m a ghost and no one knows it yet –
tethered by unbreakable strings to a body.
I can go wandering, separate the two, occasionally,
but I always fall back in and it hurts –
clawing pains in the chest,
numbness in the limbs,
skull splitting in the head.
Let’s say I’m only half in touch with the world –
several steps back in the in-between.
I can reach out a hand, I can love, but not in a living way.
It’s cold, see; it doesn’t cross the void;
it gets lost in the in-between, untouchable.
Let’s say I’m only half here in the now –
others will reach out, lay a hand on my arm
and while it won’t go through me, on account of the body,
it will feel wrong against my soul.
Let’s say I’m already a dead thing trying to be an alive thing –
it’s an exhausting pretence, part of me always writhing;
always a distance between me and the living.
I cannot stand the body; I cannot stand the living rules.
I maim the body, cut it up, starve it, sicken it;
I play by the rules but I can’t commit.
Let’s say I’m a haunting that needs some soothing –
what is offered is the meddling hands that promise to fix me;
they’ll make me normal; they’ll give me the allusion of connection.
They’ll prescribe me pills and feedings and regular activities;
the end goal is always living; the end goal is always work;
the end goal is hiding the dead parts.
I do not want this: I just want permission to continue my haunting.
I want validation that I do not belong.
Let’s just say I’m a ghost, because it’s easier than the truth –
See, I’m just a selfish thing who finds it better to be ill;
I’m just a flimsy thing who won’t partake in the world.
It’s easier to imagine that I’m different as opposed to a dreadful person,
so I’ll play at the ghost, slipping into fake time.