I never believed in ghosts

until I realized that I was one --

empty, invisible

and dead.

My ghost watches me and she’s eveything

I am,

and even more of who I want

to be.

I remember the day I first felt her.

I was alone, as usual.

Entered into high school number three,

in a new state

drained by California

sun. Freshly seventeen,

dancing queen,

ever so mean.

I looked at the wilting roses on the

kitchen table, and wondered

if roses hated their own thorns

as much as I hated my own

cruelty and I wondered

whether I was one of those people

who just aren’t meant to have

a home and i wondered

whether I was just wasting my youth,

when the overwhelming wave of existentialism

hurled me off of the cliff

into the abyss of fleeting youth

and endless inevitabilties

and I

now know that it was my ghost

who pushed me

because she thinks

I’m more beautiful

when I’m lifeless.

and sometimes, I believe her.

But on the days where I don’t

On the days where that wretched ghost

is quiet I feel at home for a moment

That feels like an eternity.

And I’ll collect these little eternities

Until I feel okay again.

Until they can

build my home.