I wonder if your mother used to tell you ghost stories when you were five years old and wide eyed and hungry for the world, and I wonder if that’s why your eyes look so incredibly haunting.
And I mean haunting in the sense that cobwebs get tangled in your eyelashes when you blink, and I mean haunting in the sense that bitter winters left layers of frostbite under your eyelids, and I mean haunting in the sense that I look at you and my worst fears reach out to grab me but I can’t look away.
Your eyes are ghosts and I am a body of graveyards, and you grab my hand and teach me what it’s like to be beautiful and dying. You teach me what it’s like to be beautiful and dying with your soul hanging between two palms that could never quite connect the right way.
I learn about you in ways where you are unread thoughts and sleepless nights laid out in rows along your arms. l learn about you in ways where you are haunting eyes and cold hands and too much spirit for your chest to hold.
I wonder if your older brother taught you how to pick flowers out of their stems and wash them down the sink because darling, I know you love watching the water turn red and there are only so many ways you can kill time before you begin to kill yourself.
– excerpt from a book I’ll never write