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Letter to My Ghosts and Gods

To the ghosts that live between my mattress pad and bed sheets
I’m sorry you are left behind in skin particles of the others
in the love dust, like some mausoleum
are you tending the museum of past companions well?
I suppose my tears only wash away small stains on the artifacts
To the ceiling fan god who watches over me at night and makes me dream
Are you wondering when I’ll get a new urn for the ashes?
My great passion burns so bright this old thing can hardly hold a tenth of my sheddings
And I pray to you in the wee hours to hum me to sleep with your vibrating lullaby
to entrance this being, a mere corporeal candidate for synthetic treatments
You watch me with the bottles and the ghost collect the pills lost in the undertow
between two worlds I struggle with these entities, sloughing off the cells
The cells that make me breathe another day
With a loofah in one hand I beg pardon to the epidermis as I attempt
to enact reptilian rituals and rub raw the pale exposed bits of cancerous humanity
Can we be so cold blooded?
Lose the layers in one go, now you’re gone, ready for the next one
But alas there are monuments and mosaics dedicated to the heart felt intertwinings
Some are more intricate than others
As I scrub my flesh red I realize I have only succeeded in quickening the growth
of a particular piece that would have taken longer to complete.
Perhaps the ghosts appreciate this of me,
the ceiling fan disagrees.


About deadendemily

Emily lives in Austin, TX. She has a minor in chaos and a major in spray paint. She likes Vincent Price and ABBA. She enjoys being covered in fake blood and writing horror stories. Most of the time she just hopes that her cat is not plotting to murder her, her cat being a minion of Satan and all. They would never suspect the cat.

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