Hidden in Pain

I need to hide.

Any dark place will do.

Maybe, if I disappear, the memories will fade.

If I get small enough—

if I am quiet enough—

Maybe the memories will let me go.

They all need to go:

the pain, the torment,

the ache of never being rescued.

Is there a place I can hide?

Please.

I would have hidden under my bus seat, but you would have found me there.

Now I crouch in closets, but the door won’t lock.

What if you find me again?

It wasn’t always this way.

I knew what happened, but I erased the clues—

wiped away evidence until even I believed the lie.

My life was fine until you came back.

Now, you’re always here.

You ride with me to work.

You sit across from me at night, silent on the other couch while I watch TV.

I need to hide.

Where can I go?

I needed a place to hide back then. I need one now—

So things can go back to normal.

What will dull this pain?

What can I take to make it stop?

The ghosts need to fade.

I came unstuck, rebuilt my life from ruins.

I can’t lose it all now.

Don’t reach for the bottle, don’t cut, don’t do anything to lose what’s left.

I cling to reality by my fingertips.

Ghosts never sleep.

They crave company in the dark.

I lie awake, keeping them near.

I tell my one safe person:

I’m no longer traveling alone.

The ghosts have returned, and I’m wasting away.

Circles bloom beneath my eyes.

I can barely move.

You start to fade.

With each person I tell, your screams grow softer.

My dear ghost, you are being evicted.

It wasn’t always this way.

I will not be haunted.