Anatomy of Ghosts

Some nights

I feel every secret I ever buried

in the backyard behind the shed—

a garden growing up from old mistakes,

from memories I swore would rot quietly

but they wake, restless, 

under my skin.

Rotting away

at my core.

There are houses inside houses 

inside of me

where the doors and windows 

never open—

where every broken promise, 

every cruel word,

echoes in the hallways at midnight

like footsteps belonging to the person

I used to be.

Some call it haunting,

others call it carrying,

I call it the anatomy of ghosts:

how it settled in my marrow,

whispered in the hollows,

how regret became my DNA,

how shame came to be 

the dust I keep inhaling.

Sometimes, I count the scars

some self inflicted,

some from accident,

some from lovers long gone

I collect them,

like coins under my mattress.

Sometimes, I try to exhume the past—

hold it up to the light,

but it flickers, spins, 

like a kaleidoscope. 

Only to slip through my fingers

like the names of people I lost on purpose.

Tell me—

Have you ever tried

to outrun your past?

Have you ever been chased—

by your own shadow,

and found you’re always

just a little too slow?

Some ghosts are gentle.

They sit with me over black tea,

tell me I’m more than what I’ve done.

But most nights,

they rattle the pipes,

they bang the doors,

wild and ferocious—

like the monsters 

from my nightmares. 

They remind me there’s still dirt 

under my nails

from all the graves I dug 

inside myself.

I am haunted,

hunted,

chased by memories

I can't escape.

Every ache is an elegy,

every bruise writes a map—

I am becoming

because of the ghosts within me,

not in spite of them.

So tonight,

I let the ghosts tell their stories.

I listen. 

I ache.

I survive them—

again, 

and again,

and again.