I engraved ghosts into my walls,

painting the ceiling lifeless, pale,

hollow. And they played hide-and-seek

between my ribbons and sneakers to the

thud of my great grandfather’s clock.

 

A year passed and I struggled to ride my

skates outside. I slipped and slid down

the curbsides, delicately

drawing scar by scar into my skin.

 

Another year went by and I graduated

from my favorite yellow swing to

the big kid swing pushed by my ghosts that

I had learned to cherish behind my white ribbons.

 

I became an adult when they faded

slowly into the crevices of my clock.

 

And only the shell of my half-cracked body remained

near my crumbling walls.