I Frightened Myself. I Became The Ghost

Such A Courageous Boy I Was. To Act Brazenly Under Scrutiny And Risk Further Injury To My Wounded Heart. Ah, The Resilience, The Blind, Dumb Persistence Of Youth.

Fate Is Trying To Kill Me. I Miss My Dog. What's A Doctor Going To Say? You're Not Ill, You're Mad As A Muffin? They'll Either Lock Me Up Or Tell Me To Get A Grip And No One Will Believe The Truth Anyway.

When You Read A Book, The Neurons In Your Brain Fire Overtime, Deciding What The Characters Are Wearing, How They're Standing, And What It Feels Like The First Time They Kiss. No One Shows You. The Words Make Suggestions. Your Brain Paints The Pictures.

The Facts Of His Existence Are Plain. I Know That He Will Never Silence Those Unspeakable Voices. He Heard How People Killed, And How They Died And Their Voices Infected Him, Coursed Through His Body, Poisoned Him. He Didn't Know How To Turn Off The Noise, Or Turn The Hate Back Out Onto The World Like The Rest Of Us. He Turned It On Himself. You Could See That From The Scars On Him.

The Real Truth Is That The War Didn't Have Much To Do With It Except That It Provided A Perfect Limbo In Which Two People Who Were Too Young And Too Related Could Start Kissing Without Anything Or Anyone Making Us Stop.