The wind no longer comes to touch the trees

That stand unmoving like my horse and I.

These days, nothing stirs much anymore.

I’ve traveled this wood for years, yet never seeing

it as others do, as I long to.

When Haru returned home after being stuck in traffic for two hours, he almost didn’t make it past the front door because exhaustion dragged him down. Once he kicked off his shoes and tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, he threw himself onto the couch, ready to sink into the cushions and sleep. 

In the silence that follows I am reminded that I am a ghost in life as much as I will be in death. My joke has landed at the party flat, like uncapped soda left in windowed sun. Desperate desperate desperate. I need to tie myself back, to wrap a ribbon around my waist and pull until I’m almost sliced in half, but not, just bleeding and bandaged, but I can’t. It’s too late.

You were always heartless

always say that organ was worthless

Could never understand

how I could follow mine so blindly

Before I wake, I am lying in a cradle-like bed. It is hot as if I were being cooked alive. I slowly rise from the prison of the small bed. My tiny feet slip onto the floor. My eyes sink deep into the darkness. I walk. Behind me, arms wrap around my head while palms are pressed against my eyes. I struggle to see that which hunches in the corner, breathing deeply.

Miro’s forehead almost slammed onto the counter when the door opened, letting in a breeze that roused him and the goosebumps along his arms.

A collection of poems including “Ghost,” “Scream,” and “Grim Reaper”

It didn't take much convincing from Miles for me to agree to follow him into the canyon in search of Katie. Why she went there specifically is a mystery. We knew she loved the waterfall, tall limestone walls, and of course the ghost stories, but to run away to the canyon alone after dark? That seemed unnecessary, even by her standards.

something is eating the rats, mangoes rot on the branch where topsoil licks worms clean, felled from forests, money we will never see grows on trees ––a million ears hear the crash, lips sealed with blood curdle screams into marrow of the soil

She was the type of little girl that hid, crouched and small, from the adults. The silent type too afraid to give voice to her wants. So despite being tired, she lay awake in bed, waiting. She was good at that. Sometimes she wondered if people even knew she was there, that she was a little girl and not a wall.