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.