Small Ghost

by Trista Mateer

it’s strange all the things you forget about when you can’t find the scars to prove they happened anymore

there’s something about emptying her guts out to people who don’t ask for her name that doesn’t feel good but it feels okay

she keeps crying over people who don’t exist anymore or people who don’t matter anymore maybe both

she makes things so people know she’s still here she makes things so she knows she’s still here

but it takes an awful lot of work to be nothing sometimes and it just takes a medium amount of work to cry over weird Journey covers

she can’t remember when she started digging her own grave but now she can’t stop hovering over it

it’s hard to watch you clean up messes when she feels like one herself

how do you accept you’ve lost a fight with yourself?

all she knows is that she’s tired of letting the things she doesn’t forgive herself for pile up like leaves in the autumn you know it gets to a point where you can rake and rake and rake but the leaves just keep coming down and children just keep making games out of running through them it’s so easy to feel trampled by absolutely nothing

thinks about how hard it is to admit that she wants things because it means she might not get them then wants things anyway