phantom whispers by Halle Ewing (14, California)

[Content warning: self-harm/death]
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"i’m not allowed to have sharp things."
does that explain anything. 
at all. 
maybe it does. maybe not. 

---

ghosts float down my throat 
fill my lungs with dead whispers. 
of everything and nothing more, 
they ask me to speak. 

they are 
ghosts. 
they are 
quiet. 
they take 
less space 
than living do. 

                   (you let them in?) 
                   (i let them whisper.) 
                   (only whisper, nothing more.) 

i spoke with them 
too long 
listened to them now look. 
look, now. where i am. 

                   (stuck. between life. between death.)
                   (i become ghosts.) 
                   (i fear myself.) 

they lock me in. dissect my 
jugular trachea esophagus 
steal my throat my teeth 
my tongue my breath. 
no more speaking, 
no more whispers. 

                   (i listen.) 
                   (i only listen.) 
                   (for i am nothing anymore.) 

and when the ghosts return 
when they take the sharp things i can’t have 
carve the walls 
of my voice 
out, 
steal what’s left, 
shape my silence for their ghastly words, 

                   i try to scream. 
                   it comes out a whisper. 
​
                   ​(nothing more.)

​