POETRY THAT STAYS

Parts of me keep on dying

I used to just sleep it off whenever your ghost visits me. In dreams, I go back in time and meet the old you. And for a few fleeting hours, I forget all the events of how what we had came crashing down.

But lately, it has been losing its effect. It gets harder to wake up sometimes; to let go of the moment where scars do not yet exist. 

You see, it's impossible to deceive the mind when it has learned the trick. Then from relief, sleeping and dreaming have turned to horror. 

Because no matter how many times you meet reality, whether you expect it or not—doesn't even matter where you're at or what you're doing—it can always knock you off, take out all the air from your lungs, and make your vision all woozy. And the worst part is it only hits you harder every time.

So maybe I've been unconsciously avoiding sleep out of fear of the repeated trips back to square one, of rubbing off the scab again from a healing wound. 

Sometimes, your ghost visits in the middle of the night. I pretend I don't recognize her, yet she keeps on staring at me. And another part of me slowly dies.

And I think, maybe when all of me has died, she'd finally stop dropping by.