How do you hold me in a tight embrace I can’t deny. How do you make the moon look like a best friend in the dark, how do you make the chirps outside my window sound like a never ending alarm in the night of a black sky. How do you make the stars look so beautiful that I don’t want to look away and sleep. Why is the only time you let me sleep be when I am with someone else? Does it anger you and push you away?
Why do you make the moon's light look so warm to be in as compared to my bed and blankets? Why do you insist on keeping me up? Are you lonely? Are you afraid to sleep like I am as well? Are you as scared of the dark as me? Are you in need of someone’s embrace like me? Are you scared to let go of today and meet tomorrow, like me? Is it just me you target or do you visit others but always find your way home to me and my thoughts at night, in the dark of my room you enter my thoughts and keep me up to ponder them as if it was a matter of life and death?
Is it my fault you are here. Am I too scared to let you go? A friend that won’t leave me like I’m scared of now and push them away without my own knowledge. Is it my fault you are here to haunt me like a ghost and it’s house? Was it something I did, or was it something I didn’t?
These are questions I ponder day and night. Here or not you are always in my head as if I am a priest refusing to confess a sin. Your name is Lena as if already deciding on where I lean to for comfort. Not my mother and not someone I can physically see, but a figment of my imaginashon I think and know is always there. As if my emotions aren’t enough to weigh me down like an iron ball to a prisoner, but to hold me down by words I think are yours but in reality they are my own.
In sixth grade I finally had the courage to tell someone of you, someone I trusted. But I had no idea how to explain, so in my age of stupidity I claimed I had a ghost in my head. I meant to explain to you but then they went ahead and denied it and called me a liar. That night was one of those nights I just wanted to cry. At the age of eleven someone had called me a liar for speaking the truth. In that time of needing someone you were there. Ready to listen. That day I lost a friend but claimed a new one in her place.
Her name was Lena, with the stubborn attitude that reminded me of my father but the warm hugs of my mother. She could listen and tell stories. To them she was fake but to me she was real. She was a friend. But after a while she would keep me up and just stare out my window, and I would join. Sounds familiar. It’s you. Someone I want to leave, but to also stay at the same time.
