It must be hard work to give therapy to the dead

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.