Gia Raquel

There’s this shoveling emptiness harboring inside of me. I feel as though I should be worried of its presence. But in reality I’m too consumed by this euphoria filling my lungs.

It is times like these I wish I could scream. Because when night rolls around, and his medication wears thin from consummation, I grow weary and livid of his presence within my walls. I want him away from it all. But within his absence lives destruction. And I cannot live through that once more.

Maybe I don’t want to live, I don’t know. But I do know the difference. I am slippery. But I dare not put in the effort to hurt myself. It is the lack of effort that may kill me.

Maybe then he’d have an idea. I won’t speak. I won’t look, or touch, or bother. It is no longer my place. My presence is an annoyance that I realized too long ago. It wasn’t right for a small child to come to this epiphany.

The more I live the more I touch and the more important I hope to become. I want to scream to someone who will listen. I exist! I exist god damn it! I’m so utterly hell-bent on proving to the unimportant that I somehow possess an idea of what it means to live.

I’m hoping if I cry, I’ll feel better. Don’t we all hope that? Don’t we all hope that maybe all these burdens will lift just for a little while, feeling sorry or even guilty for their place in this world. Just as we feel now?

Do the ghosts see me crying? I wonder if they ever feel sympathy, and if they continue to weep in the after-life. Maybe they just continue their self-sorrow. God, I hope not.