Atop the asylum in September, you were speaking out at me. “Remember the ghosts?” You asked it, slowly, like you were afraid all the words would disappear if not given their proper voice and pronunciation of how magical a singular word is. Remember. The. Ghosts. Do I remember the ghosts?
You ask silly questions darling. In Abel’s last words: “They keep watching me like wanderers. I want to give them bread, but I don’t know how to touch them, or, even, if I can.” Of course I remember the ghosts and their strong hair whipping through the shadows like spider webs in corners of ceilings, pacing slowly with curled lips. They shrieked like radio static in our bones, shaking our thumbnails and burning our hair with water and sound—so much shaking to peel our skin from its limbs. I feel it now, too, I feel the ripping as my nails grasp veins and pull, trying to remove the ghosts from our selves. They poisoned our tongues and shed our smiles. They carved their initials into our hearts and from their eyes rose sunlight, fire on our faces. Most of all I remember the weeping as Abel attempted to float into the sky. Did he not know? Ghosts are everywhere. They were in his mouth as the blood spilling onto concrete from his snapped elbows.
I remember the ghosts only because we are the ghosts, darling.