ghost wordies 01: the rotting

And it was on the walls. And it was on the ceiling. And I couldn’t shake the feeling— out of everyone in the world, it had picked me for its keeping.

I was haunted in my teenage years.
It started as a shadow that followed me when I was a child. Long, crooked, and sprawled behind me. As if my tiny body were dragging a rotted black tree.

Then, it pressed into me.

During the day. At school. It's hands hugged my insides. No longer a tree, but still black and rotted. It filled my organs and clogged my throat. It covered my eyes and let me peek at the world through its fingers. It muffed my ears, turning passing conversations into low rumbles and innocent laughter into shrill screams. It squeezed my insides. I could barely move. I couldn’t breathe. I was desperate to bleed. Maybe then. Someone would see. It sat on my shoulders and gripped my head. It was my ruler and I, its pet.

It always came out at night.

From my insides, it would seep through my pores and pool onto my bedroom floor. Black dripped down the hallway and climbed up the walls. It got stuck in the mirrors and banged up the cabinets. 

It made faces in the windows. It danced on the ceiling.

It tapped its fingers on my dresser and made footprints on the stairs. There was no home. Only its layer. When I was away. And out in the world. It clung to me from my insides. It slinked around my gums, pried opened my gritted teeth, and crawled out of me. Fluorescent lights blinking. Invisible black blood leaking. 
Lifeless and dreaming.

I found its eyes in the dark. Yellow like piss. Knowing me in the darkness. Growing me in the darkness. Owning me in the darkness. I mourned that there was no god— only its yellow eyes.

Set free by the night. Alive in the quiet. Using my cherished girlhood as its hearty diet.

And it was on the walls. And it was on the ceiling. And I couldn’t shake the feeling— out of everyone in the world, it had picked me for its keeping.  

I had a dream that the air in my lungs was stolen from me. It hushed out of my chest with a force I’d never known. I pushed out a scream, but no noise followed the wind escaping me. There was no time. The air was frozen. Desperate. And knowing. My eyes peeled open. Only to see nothing. No mirror in front of my bed. No covers that had been tossed around in the night. I could feel no mattress beneath me. I could feel no limbs attached. 
Only my eyes wide open, and seeing nothing.

Seeing nothing. 
But knowing and feeling. I was dancing on the ceiling.

ghost wordies is an experimental fiction series.

wordies are not short stories. wordies are not poems. wordies are not essays. Not quite.

wordies are, however, vibrant colors on a page. They’re abstract paintings. They’re daydreams, visions, and questions. They’re commas. They’re exhales. They’re and but or. They’re pacing back and forth. They’re bones cracking and tangled curls. They’re eraser shavings in journals. They’re affirmations and broken promises. They’re smile lines and furrowed brows. They’re memories, regrets, and deep wells of wishes. They’re filled in margins and the spaces between ellipses. I could go on, but you get the picture. wordies are emotive experiences between the story that are,,, at times, nonlinear.

happy halloween from wordies!