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21Dec2015 151504 0051 December

Alone With My Ghost

I do not feel like I am
alone, even in those moments
spent in darkened bedrooms
when my head is pounding and
my knees are weak from
vodka mixers and panic I know
he is here. This other being
whose mind is probably
better than mine. Whose words would
write far better lines I
find him – lying beside me on

itchy carpets I see his face
so clearly. A smattering of
freckles and eyes the colour
of chestnuts. I feel out for him. I will him
to retrieve this body
I have taken I’m sure he could master
drunken hyperventilation. Is there
any reason or was it just
cruel luck that he will never know
the smell of heather. Never know how
he could make someone shiver; never
know his well-deserved anger. I wish
him to crawl out of my mind so
he could tell our mother
he loves her. He is my
conscious other – my better half
wrapped in a mist of drink and dark. He is
untainted by the flaws of living and
sometimes I resent him for it. Sometimes I
wish he were real and could feel
the strain in my chest that comes from
indecent amounts of oxygen I wish he
could feel tear tracks on his face and heartbreak and
happiness. But then,

he is there, in those quiet moments. Spent in
frozen parks and bathtubs washing in darkness I
reach out for him. And he reaches out for me, our
hands interlace and without saying anything, without
ever having done it himself, he teaches me
how to breathe.

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