musings of a ghost

I remind myself you are forbidden.

And the words I never said to you.

The touch of your lips on my skin felt so real, I woke up. Funny how I have actually never felt your lips on me.

I read about twenty three thousand pages this year and I found you in every one of them.

Unconditionally.

Can one dare long for someone who was never hers?

What am I without memories? The memory of a warm hand on my skin. The feeling of feather-light kisses on my lips. The memory of you inside my head. You and your quirks that exist in my memory and mine only. What am I without it all? What am I without the memory of you—both bitter and sweet?

Mother, can I be euthanized? The pain is too much but I'm too scared to make myself bleed, choke myself or poison my already poisonous heart. Can I instead go away peacefully? 

What do you do when existence feels like a punishment? When the urge to run a blade through your wrist becomes so strong that you practically taste the blood in your mouth.  You think of your mother. Not for the reasons one would think, though. You think of your mother because she would have to wash your cold, dead body, murmuring curses under her breath, how you already made her exhausting life even more unbearable. She would have to pry off the press on nails from your fingers, while she wonders where she went wrong, what she did for you to be so selfish.  My birth already ruined my mother's life. My death would be like adding fuel to the fire. What would she tell others when they ask her? What would happen to all the money and the abuse she spent only on me? It would all have been for nothing.  I cannot kill myself. My mother would kill me.

The people closest to you always find new ways to break your heart.