My little ghosts

 
      It's been a long, long year, imaginary readers,
     
                    And these ghosts of mine are often in disagreement.

                How many times have I questioned their existence?
       
              Why not confront them, now when I have the chance.

                    Why not be weary of the same old assumptions.

                  Why not be afraid. It's human nature.

              Who else is going to save me when I quest for absolution?
         
Who will quiet them, challenge their misdirection.

                                    You know the ones of which I speak .

    They shine in the dark, elusive and free.

They aren't afraid of me. I dream of them

      every day. It's the night, sometimes,

  that finds me unprepared.

        They're still there, cowardly yet menacing.

I've seen them, in the visions. I've felt them in the spaces between.

  When I wake up without breath, it takes all day to shake them off.
 
I am unamused by these antics.

Why not take them on, the looming, haunting things,

        These ghosts of my other selves.

  Why can't I ignore them, and their tiny bright lights,
      and their prickling presence. It's unfair, it's not forgiving.

      No one can be made to exist as if perfect.

    As if paint and plaster could come to life.

    As if late-regretted words could change into something unheard.
   
  They can't help being, they were there before me, they are me.

                    What is so sad as a lost old ghost, fixed in the mind of a true believer.
   
Who would be aware of this -  no one too close.

      Who knows why the book comes back empty sometimes.

            Am I so disillusioned as to imagine my defeat? 
 
Stay, strength, be alive when I am.
                Be there, unknown savior,

                              I've made it this far.
        Hopeless me,

  I've been so many different people:

and they all want to live.