Ghosts
“Justified”
A term that seems so distant,
Too simple to explain the blood
The secrets
The lies that I tell myself
So that I might have one good night of rest
So that the night does not keep me
This monster that I am becoming
Fed by failed relationships
And the desire to escape critical eyes that know
That the seances that I agree upon with myself are futile attempts to call upon a once joyful soul
Maybe, just maybe, if I meet this ghost enough, brought up in longing conversations of a lover I have lost, or just chosen to forget
I will finally get to rest
In knowing that what I longed for was never to add up, or to be accepted
But to know that a ghost is only something to be afraid of if it’s blood is on my hands
Calluses from this dagger that I hold close to my own heart have become the only thing that lets me feel
Through the padding of cells I recall pressure that I once knew to be touch
But that is now covered in tough skin that protects me from this ghost
One that speaks of a time when he remembered that the sacrificial knife that I hold inches away from me was once held by another for reasons nearly forgotten
Nearly
Freedom will not be found in answers
But in the quiet
Where I know that this blood on my hands was not the result of self inflicted wounds, but the opening of old ones that never quite seemed to heal
The dried blood on my clothes toe the line between “I survived” and “I’m to blame”
Only revealing in myself that this heart pumping out blood must not know the difference between arteries and veins
One gives, one takes away
No newness
Just old wearing the mask of life
But, as long as this organ of love keeps beating, I get farther and farther from my fears
As long as there is oxygen in these lungs and blood in these veins, no matter how adulterated or full of half truths and ghosts they are
Life still happens
And I am still breaking down the walls of stone that protect me from the unknown
Or simply protect me from being known
My bloodshot eyes reveal the truth
My veins are full of blood with no life
This ghost tells me that maybe one day we’ll get back
Back to a place where I, in my blindness, won’t be able to tell the difference between pain and happiness
Where the grey is my drug
And the silence my fix
“Come let us sing for joy to the Lord; let us shout aloud to the rock of our salvation”
What an easy escape for ones whose lungs haven’t inhaled and exhaled enough to understand that the collapse of these lungs came from just that
Just as I hold my breath as I pass graveyards, this ghost doesn’t reside in a place of final rest, but in the inaudible sense that what this tongue speaks will never be enough to shake the sweet film of a memory of a spirit that once filled me
Maybe that’s just it
Holding my breath as I pass graveyards isn’t a tradition
Or a belief of possession
It is the reminder that no matter how much I inhale this ghost
I may never see him again
Possession might be the answer if I have you
If presence is the trump card to answers, then I am surrounded
This ghost I cannot seem to shake asks me why I have forsaken him
Why I hide the blood on my hands as if telling him that I am guilty would satisfy him once and for all
But all I can come up with is silence
So if presence is greater than answers, if he comes looking for me, tell him this...