Today’s poem is a revision of one I posted a while ago. I kept a few lines from that poem, Sleeping With Ghosts, to create this:
Ghosts aren’t real, she told me while settling
her naked body into the crook of arms belonging to
the corpses of loves that never should have been.
She made pillows out of the faces of men
who’d crushed her dreams like the sweet, hard candies
she used to hold in her cheeks, savoring when she was a girl.
At night while she sleeps she remembers
how easily she had been discarded, her love
wrapped in the recycled news found in a trash bin &
used to wrap dead fish, with unseeing eyes, fish that’s
no longer fit for consumption. And her tears fail to wash
away remnants of the ghosts of yesterday so they continue
to keep her awake. Still she keeps them near, their familiarity
seemingly enough to keep her from beginning to dream
things could ever be different. That’s how she convinced herself
that ghosts aren’t real & that love is nothing more than
grasping hold to what doesn’t want to be held.
Peace & Love,