I'm Afraid of My Ghost

I'm afraid of my ghost —

the version of me that never made it back,

the one who stayed in the dust,

who learned to breathe smoke like air.

He follows me through quiet rooms,

sits in the chair I leave empty at dinner,

reads over my shoulder every time I write

about survival.

He knows what I left behind.

I'm afraid of my ghost

because he remembers everything I've tried to forget —

the weight of silence after a radio goes dead,

the way a man's name sounds

when it's the last thing you say to him.

He doesn't haunt me with horror.

He haunts me with tenderness.

He reminds me I was soft once.

That I cried at sunsets.

That I wrote love letters by flashlight

and believed in them.

I'm afraid of my ghost

because he is more alive than I am.

And some nights,

when the house is quiet and the dark is honest,

I think he is the one who survived —

and I am the one

still trying to come back.