Daily Post: Disappear – A Poem

You slid out of me, ectoplasm,
and I let you. You are
a phantom stranger in
my memories with strong teeth
and living hands that reach
into my head through
dreams that drench me
in ice-cold sweat and I feel
dead when I wake up after
midnight to feel you flee
from the fake bed in my head.
I watch you float through walls,
away, your smile is unfamiliar.

Disappear

Daily Post: disappear – draft notes

You disappeared long ago; I wept and wondered.
I let you slide out of me like ectoplasm.

You used to say I’d stay a ghost but
it’s always been you,
who floated,
who walked through walls,

a phantom stranger
with teeth and living hands

You slid out of me, ectoplasm,
and I let you. You are
a phantom stranger in
my memories with strong teeth
and living hands that reach
into my head through
dreams that drench me
in ice-cold sweat and I feel
dead when I wake up after
midnight to feel you flee
from the fake bed in my head.
I watch you float through walls,
your smile is unfamiliar.

Disappear

Enter darkness.

Your fingers were hexes but so clean

for you to pose my bones to fit around them.

I was emptied

like a dollhouse overturned by a child pretending

to escalate from a thunderstorm to a hurricane.

Exit darkness

Edit 2:

The darkness came.

Your fingers were hexes but so clean

for you to pose my bones to fit around them.

You emptied me like I was a dollhouse and

you were a child pretending to be a hurricane,

turning me upside down to make it real.

The darkness left.

Edit 3:

The darkness came.

Your fingers were hexes but so clean

for you to pose my bones to fit around them.

By you, I was emptied

like a dollhouse overturned by a child pretending

to be a hurricane.

The darkness left.

His fingers were hexes but so clean

to pose my bones to fit around them.

 

 

 

The darkness came. The darkness left.

 

The darkness did not match to what was inside of me.

It’s your fault

he wants everything and nothing

Roar like a tigress, cry like a little girl

be fierce, be soft

be prepared to disintegrate

like a clay figurine in his hands

when he changes his mind

he doesn’t want your muddy children,

your dusty face, your woman hands