Scribbled words line all the pages.
I feel like everything I write is ugly and maybe it is.
Ugly words from an ugly soul.
And yet I still wrapped them up for you and tried to make you listen.
I was never the same after that day you kicked me out of your bed
because my skin was too cold.
I never returned and I never thawed, and since that day I have failed to find warmer sheets.

I still see your ghost in my dreams.
It whispers to me in my sleep and reminds me that it still lives in my ribcage.
It breathes your name inside of my body every time I inhale.
Every letter hurts like bullet wounds from the inside.
I tried to cut you out but I only ended up hurting myself.
Now I’m scared that one day your ghost will make my own skin betray me,
bid my own skin to stop healing.
And the next flesh wound will be the death of me,
because your ghost made me forget how to heal.