11 October 2010

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead


i am fairly
certain
that if you were to
r e a c h(stretch,stretch)
out for me,
your hands would pass
right thro(in and out)ugh
me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants
of who and what i
used to be.

i have faded and weathered,
like the photograph that
sits on your
cob-webbed window
sill,

bleached by the
sun's
too-powerful strike,

my corners curled
and my edges worn,

my structure broken
and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than
some vague silhouette of
a girl
who once existed
in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing
more
than

a ghost.

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