Ghostly Hands

Ashes drift from the flames into the air.

I try to catch them, but they go through

my ghostly hands.

My words, my soul, my solace of speaking,

even only to myself in journals, so I could

put a name on this death.

Those sacred words, my holy writ,

scripture of the secret places in me,

are being destroyed.

I told of his hateful words, wild anger,

the fists that fell were others wouldn’t

see the bruises.

I am gone, and I am gone again, because

he doesn’t want to look bad. His good name

is worth more than my soul.

Ashes drift, his face Halloween orange, flickering.

Once I would have loved that. Found that beautiful.

I once found him beautiful.

My words, my sacred sorrows, the ink that drew not

blood when he drew mine, are gone, gone forever.

Sparks go through my ghostly hands.


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