A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope

by K.M. Moronova

It wasn’t my fault? Then, years later, I changed that thought from a question to a statement, and those words became my daily mantra. It was never my fault. So why do I still want to die?

With the darkness of night, the human soul finds solace in being hidden—fewer eyes to interrogate you for the odd joys you hold in your heart. Funny, the things I never noticed before. The things that I wish I would’ve paid more attention to when I was alive.

My light died a long time ago—flickering with the many exhales of disapproval until finally, with one big breath, it was blown completely out. Like a withering candle left out in the cold, surely to hush and diminish as expected.

“I don’t need to know you to think of you, Ophelia. You’ve already imprinted yourself into my mind. You don’t give yourself enough credit for how unique you are, how alluring.” He leans forward again, and as tired as I am, I sit up to look him in the eyes. My messy hair falls over my shoulders. “Though, I wouldn’t mind being able to get to know you.”

.

“You feel the world more than others do, don’t you? You’re like me in that sense. Drowning in the expectations and eyes. Would you believe me if I told you when I was alive all I wanted was to die?”

.

Apologies after apologies. Someone thoroughly broke this girl.

.

Have I ever felt this nervous around someone? That timid grin that you get from being around someone who lights your heart like a match spreads across my face.

The way every cell in my being reverberates and responds to her. Ophelia is liquid in my veins. Her laugh forever haunting.

Let your dreams die. Undoubtedly, if you don’t, you’ll be miserable.

She suffers inside, like a diseased plant, rotting from the roots—the decay isn’t visible on the surface, not at first. But it’s such a slow, tragic way to let yourself die.

“They are my take on yearning. You see, the moth is darkness, chasing the butterfly, craving the brightness of it. But when the moth is the one running, the butterfly, being light, chases it in return, unable to exist without the moth, because without darkness there is no light.”

“At least when it’s a flesh wound it stays there. It doesn’t sink any further than my fucking bones. But when they tell me all the reasons why I’m a terrible person or why I’m worthless, those wounds infest my soul.

I crave his presence like darkness wants for light. I am the moth, my eyes linger over my tattoo, he is the butterfly. His light is blinding.

Your infected mind will drag him down to the depths with you. You’ll be the cause of his ruin.

“I cannot rid you from my mind, Ophelia. It’s as if you’ve instilled an illness of your own into me. You are the sole thought that ravages my mind as I lie awake at night. The ceilings make me think of you. The forest. Roses. Breathing—I cannot take breath without you eroding my sanity.”

“More than dancing and collecting greenery. Every song I listen to reminds me of you. Every glance into the sky, the stars, the sunlight—I see you everywhere, Lanston. I feel you in the breeze that greets my cheeks, the scent of pages and books. You’ve haunted me from the day I laid eyes on you.”