“trace the sky’s scars”

I want to write a love poem to my ghost, but I do not like her.

my phone case is a daily reminder that, I, 

am “lucky to exist”

because supposedly there are people who love me;

and while I don’t deny this, somehow,

I don’t really feel all that lucky,

their statements that preach protection feel like demands,

less kind, more practiced in order to sell lies,

I have made a friend within my ghost

she molds my occipital lobe, 

her name is liz, 

she is everything I wished upon a star to be 

but could not achieve,

she is my sea, because she knows no pain, 

but is the destruction of me,

she critiques my nothingness,

I must scream I’m vacant

before she believes me,

I am not here to become her gospel,

but I have yet to prove I’m worth more than her Sunday sermons,

all I am is what I’ll always be,

now liz is trapped inside of me,

she gurgles through my abdomen, 

it is imperative I am not bottomless.

she had this beautiful, radiant smile 

when she allowed herself to be wild and free;

she would create pretend worlds, 

float outside the bounds of society,

exist externally to the fine line.

I miss when liz was just my ghost, 

now we play a game of war everyday,

and of course, a little friendly competition can never hurt,

but death is never a cordial affair;

you applaud the way I lost fifteen pounds, but supposedly gained a focus;

I know you hate this bruised body,

I prefer it no more than you,

but what you fail to see, 

is that you made me perfectly.

this is a love poem, liz,

from baby me,

who only wanted something to eat,

just signing off,

I no longer let 

you define me.

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