Ghost

A small and stinging hole in the tip of my finger. I must have caught it on something and hadn't noticed. It isn't bleeding, but there is dried blood around the edges and maybe it happened while I was asleep. I'm picking at it without thinking.

Text messages on my phone I won't respond too. The noise is too much. The weight of conversation and a world beyond this room. A friend. A love. A job. All needing, wanting, taking pieces of me. Pieces I wish I could offer freely. Gladly. A friend. A love. A job. Picking.

The romance of wondering 'when did I become this way? Why?'. But I know when. I know why. 

The bedroom is warm and dark. The humidifier is on and the door is open. Daylight pale and white hanging soft against the living room wall. I am sitting on the bed staring absently at a watercolor on the otherwise barren wall. I can feel the notifications on my phone from across the room. The guilt for not looking. Not responding. Not being available all the time for everyone. For anyone. I have a cup of coffee in my hand, going cold. This is not a life.

I was someone.

I was so many.

A husband. A father. A friend. A musician, an artist, a creator. I was a lover and a partner. I was a point of light in a number of lives and I was alive for so long. 

Now, only this. Only this and trying to pretend I feel more. Trying to pretend I am more and I am not.

Get out of bed and check my phone. The guilt became too much. The job demands more from me. The friend only wants to talk. The love is all I look forward too and I am ashamed. I respond to none of them right away. I checked the notifications. I read the messages. That's all I can do right now. Maybe in a while I can afford more. I walk to the bathroom. Splash water on my face and in the mirror my eyes are the only thing to belong to me. The rest of it isn't real. Isn't me. It's nothing. The eyes, somewhere beyond the iris, deep below the pupil, I see myself staring back. Buried or hiding. Still the child locked in that closet. Still the kid covering their ears, blocking out the screams and the crashing. Still the person begging, praying, wishing it was all over. Still hiding. 

Get over yourself.

I look away. Piss. Wash my hands. Leave.

I can feel my heart in my chest. I walk to the living room and sit on the couch. Through the window the same scene as ever. A white house across the street. A second floor porch. Plastic sheeting over windows and fading winter daylight. I am a ghost.