They found your bones piled in a dusty attic. They laid them to rest, but a part of you is still there, looking out the foggy window, small tears plastered to your face. You can't feel them against your cold, dead skin so you let them hit the floor.
You're haunted by your own history, yet no one else knows you're story. They're too scared to get close to you. You're heart is unfeeling—shuddering, but unfeeling. There's a terrible silence that awaits those that feel unalive.
Your soul is searching, pleading for an escape. Why are you here? You're nothing but a hum that echoes through a hollow space. You forever wander those dark halls, feet dragging—everyday the same emptiness in your step.
How long ago did you die? There's so very little left of the girl you once were, and I'm afraid she's never coming back. You're nothing more than a ghost: forgotten, trapped, helpless in your own demise.
YOU ARE READING
Celestial Confessions
PoésieA book of personal vignettes in the point of view of several gods, goddesses, myths, and legends; a diary of the heart.
