Wounded Child

A pale-milk and bloodstained child

hid behind white curtains pretending 

to be a ghost, because then maybe 

"they" would go away without hurting her. 

Little she knew about the death

she was about to face.

Little she knew about the ghost 

she would become.

With eyes wide open

I can feel my neck artery

pulsing, jumping, 

trying to free itself and 

flood the bathtub with its

imposing crimsoness. 

My hands are shaking and 

I can barely write; 

all I wanted was to free this

goddamn artery and be free;

free of the agony of existing, 

of the knots in my stomach and 

spider nests in my throat. 

All I wanted was to be free of 

the pain, the guilty and be able 

to shut my eyes and finally rest.

Because in death, one cannot reach me,

touch me, or make me feel

like I am the most disgusting 

ghostly monster that has ever existed.