please don’t write me as a ghost girl,
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though after a year of classes, i can barely
i am the calmness that hits
when i smell cigarettes, even though
i’ve never smoked,
and i am the grudges that have lingered
because i forget to let things go,
and i am the passive-aggressive comments
that i should be sorry for, but
never really am.
if you want, you can trace your pen along
the creases of my skin,
the slouch of my spine;
you can read my past in old photo albums
and taste my lips at midnight
and listen to the stories that i whisper in the dark
but when the sun hits us in the morning,
neither of us will light up the room
in a cacophony of kaleidoscopic beauty;
we will be piles of bone and sinew and sighs,
with morning breath and books to finish and work to do.
we are not ghost people.
kiss me anyway,
and smile when i say hello.