recoil
my ghost speaks to me when i need it least,
when i am sitting with friends, enjoying their presence--
she points out to me a look in my friend’s eye (just a split
second, it passes, perhaps unnoticeably), a look that
seems of disgust and she whispers,
“they’re waiting for you to leave,”
i blink,
“waiting for you to leave.”
for moments afterwards she helps me hunt more signs of their
subtle distress, conspiracies drawn between small gestures and
words and absences of words and again the familiar feeling returns
when my ghost sits on my heart and i feel it sink into my stomach as i recall:
that’s right, you’re included for show,
for kindness,
just go--
and i do.
i leave.
i sit alone in my room and i sit
and i stare and i wonder why i am so worthless
and my ghost reminds me with no particular rhyme or reason
that it is because of who i am,
the things i say,
the way i stand.