The Ghost I Have Become Caitlin MacFarland
Period 7th
Adrenaline
Thud, Thud, Thud
The blood behind my ears.
Sirens, growing closer
piercing. screeching.
Doors slam. Thud.
It is over.
Glisten, drip, glisten, drip.
My mother's eyes are leaking
and my father's on his knees
both praying to
the gavel above.
It is working.
Slam, click
And it is dark.
Feeling myself wither
Crestfallen, Time slips through.
Why does it matter?
It is night.
Crackle, crack.
Stalking, creeping about
searching for a life
for I own none,
Hearing, listening, waiting, watching.
It is fake.
Chatter, whispers, laughter.
This is not
What I seek
This is false.
This is cruel
It is wrong.
Scribble, crinkle, scribble, crinkle.
The lives that are lead,
they are black.
Lies, gossip, jabbing words.
These are not what I seek.
It is beautiful.
Crackle, breath, blink.
They play, laugh, fight
How strange yet known.
Warming inside to
see them.
It is decided.
Open, rustle, shut.
I have a plan
to touch these children
with gifts.
I must, I need
It is enthralling.
Clink, scrape, patter
My possessions, now for them.
Indian heads, twine, pocket knife, watch, gum
dolls, all of love.
Elated to see them holding these.
It is guile.
Smash, crackling.
This must stop, this is wrong.
I must return to being a malevolent phantom.
I was a fantasy to them, not
human. My love not really tangible.
It is done.
Pour, rustle.
The connection, severed.
Pouring dirt over something once living.
My heart broken for their good.
Father says it's best.
It is white.
Pitter-patter.
The snow falling softly
then ablaze
everyone there to see
including my children.
It is known.
Open, rustle.
Knowing it is wrong I
grab warmth for she who
is cold.
She shivers no more from winter's bite.
It is love.
Creek, exhale.
These feelings can
not be hidden
the love for my children grows
filling a place for my heart, never known.
It is fine.
Blink, clink, creek.
Winter melts to spring
that warms to summer
and my children feel pain
Over a decision of Maycomb
It is calm.
Blink, sniff.
The air no less bitter from
the decision spewed from racist hearts.
But all is normal once more.
They still walk by sometimes peaking for me.
It is dreamed.
Rustle, inhale.
I dreamed of a conversation
To touch my children with words
But I must not, can not.
But love will not subside.
It is said.
Shut, creek.
But love been said.
They peeped through the windows, gave greetings
on a fishing pole and wandered through our collards in search of me.
I gave them gifts, the love is known.
It is Halloween.
Scrape, rustle.
Something else creeps in the night
breaking in to places unwelcome.
An angry soul
yearning to infect others.
It is unforeseen.
Rustle, creek,
What is happening?
Why are they alone on a night as dark as black cloth?
Hearing a third set of foot steps, seeing a shadow
advancing upon my children.
It is puzzling.
Breath, creek, slam.
Are they friend or foe?
Something gleamed and I need
to act, even if it means
that I shall face my fear and come out.
It is swift.
Scuff, shuffle.
Yanking down a giant and
We fall. I extend toward my fallen knife and
plunge it into the heart of the beast.
Now only to attend the cry of pain heard in the dark.
It is bright.
Lift, groan.
Passing under the bright light carrying
my broken package.
Climbing, calling and then setting it down.
Watching everyone scramble.
It is saved.
Inhale, exhale, stop.
The face staring at me. So sweet and young
so round and full of life.
Staring through those eyes at me knowing
My love.