from me, the ghost in ur attic

You’re as real as the ache in my heart, the knife in my back. To you, I’m nothing more than a whisper, a creek in the floorboards, an odd sight lost on the second glance. Although you didn't quite catch me, I’m here. The wind dances past you. The floor by your room is unusually vocal. The wind can’t see you bring another home, but it whines through the trees in the backyard as you kiss them. When you leave in the morning, the roses in your flower bed are flattened and torn. You don’t think twice about it.


when ghosts die, do you think they become the wind? maybe a concept?
xoxo, frankenstein