Devoted Ghost
Poetry
shame wrapped desire pointed finger, cursed name. his joy betrayal, named him abused. words meant to bruise, hold in stasis. as if scars received are proof of another’s superiority. his love given twisted by projection, always accused of manipulation. and he thought it true he held the frame, a devoted ghost chained. he fell on his bed curled up cursing his name waiting for the day he would finally summon fell courage and whisper: take away the pain. but then... another came who saw the blinking child, pink hands pressed against frozen glass, threadbare soul tattered soles longing to be-- let in. for just a taste of warmth just a moment he wanted, something to confirm that Love can exist. a scent of hope like ham on Christmas. to carry with him, not as a promise-- no, that had been resolved long ago. this was not for him. he was sure. impossible. just a smell a whiff of Love, it would have to be enough to see him grow old through never-ending winters of bitter cold. but then, a miracle. miracle? She said stay. stay? you’re home now. home? come be warm. warm? let it sink in. you will never be gone again. you are seen. seen? you’ve found a friend. friend? he crawls from the corner now begins to trust. slowly. quietly. timidly. in that terrifying space, between hope hope? and confirmation. that a hand can do more than box the ears. that it can scratch away the years, welcome the tears. tears? that it bids the boy to eat, to sleep, to rest his head-- head? and remember joy. joy?


I felt all of this. like a thing that is alive on the inside. The questions, a familiar tug. Beautiful, Ryan. x