You tell me you watch ghost stories alone in the dark
When I tell you I can’t do that, you tell me ghosts aren’t real.
I laugh, because I don’t know how to tell you how wrong you are.
My ghosts don’t roam empty corridors, or hide behind doors that no one dares to open.
My ghosts inhabit my body.
They roam the corridors of my mind,
and hide behind the door of my heart,
that no one dares to open.
Panic is a phantom that dwells in me, sometimes for months at a time.
Anxiety an angry specter leaving my extremities numb and shaking,
my heart racing,
and the people I love alienated.
Baby, to be with me is to inhabit the haunted mansion that no one will go near.
It can be a hopeless place,
with a thick black shroud of depression blocking out any hope of light.
when you held me in your arms, you made all the light come back.
You told me I am amazing,
and my hands shook,
and my heart raced,
not from panic, but anticipation,
the ghosts were silent.