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Ghosts of my spine

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My lamp is broken. But I still turn it on, now and then, recklessly jacking off the pulley. I think, maybe the light bulb has fed off of my negative energy and recharged. It hasn't. It flickers and wanes, casting shadows across my room, and I watch them. Like they are the stolen inhales of a bonfire. Like they are the first kisses at a drive in movie, as the screen shivers with the wind. A haunting image, these shadows, they tickle the ghosts of my spine. The ghosts that never lived as they were born dead, suckling the teet of corpses. And on chilly, puddled nights the ghosts trek up my neck. Sometimes I wonder if they will just hide under the outgrown fur of my head, until the nights are warmer. However, they are much too brave for that. So they sneak through the cells of my corked ears; ears that learned to hide the screams of my own mind, so the copper police of consciousness who mindlessly float through the streets, would never become suspicious of my spinal phantoms' antics. My ghosts are badasses-- they go by foot across the softest parts of my brain that serve no purpose for them. Then they stick their used straws into the negative space of my mind, slurping up all the memories that never existed. The motel I never stayed at. The one with the humming lights, the dark dissipating woods all around, and the cheap sheets that would exfoliate my body with itches. The man that never wrapped his cape around my blank body, with fingers running down my back, painting road maps for where the ghosts would hunt. The hands that never kept me. The breath that never tied me up to tell me that I was everything so I needed to be no one for a while. The thighs that never salivated with a thick, luscious blood. The love in the stolen car that never sped faster than the rigged metal clock bells that shut it all off at 2:54 am. And left me sitting in the dark to watch the shadows of my hands press into the white walls of my room. Like a scoop of ice cream melting into a milkshake.

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