#this is late bc its election day and ive been crying lol

I’m six years old when I hear my first ghost story;
it’s Halloween and they file us in a dark classroom
where a teacher whose name I do not recall tells us
of an old man in a top hat—his black, sullen eyes contrast
against his translucent skin that hangs off his cheeks.
He waits on the edge of the forest for a stay child
to walk just far enough away from their group before
he lures them into the trees.
They do not tell us what happens of the child;
we do not know the horrors that happened,
that is only between the man,
the child, and the trees—
their bark rotten with secrets,
poisoned by the stories no one dares to talk about.

You see, everyone loves a good ghost story; they love to feel
their blood run cold as they start to feel the hot breath of
someone else’s tragedy on the back of their neck;
a tragedy they get to walk away from, because it is
not their burden to bare, not their ache to feel.

They never warned you what it was like to become
your own ghost story; what it is like to haunt your own life;
what it’s like to feel your pulse, air fill your lungs,
but never truly know the feeling of being alive.
  
When they tell you ghost stories, the speak in past tense,
speak in wonderment, and hushed whispers because it is
meant to be a secret, something to be tucked away in your
back pocket, unseen by the everyone.
You walk around, disconnected from the world, looking for
anyone to listen to your tragedy.

But not every story is worth telling.

3/30 by (DS)