There is a ghost
Who slips her spindly fingers
Between mine
And whispers dusty secrets
Against my lips when no one’s looking
I found her under a rock
In my backyard when I was three
And she’s hung out, haunting me,
Ever since
When boys get too close,
She swoops down from the ceiling
Flashing her green teeth and
Feathered ears until they scurry up and
Leave
And I used to appreciate it,
But now, sometimes, she
Scares me
When she mentions the apples in
Hell
And wanting me to taste them
With her—
I used to think she just meant someday,
But yesterday I thought I heard her voice in my sleep
Repeating
Tomorrow
Marie E. Kopp (she/her) is a writer living on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with her demon-child cat, Oliver. Her work centers on her experience of bipolar 1 disorder, the deconstruction of her traditionalist Catholic faith and values, and her newfound exploration of the erotic as a queer and disabled female in our harsh contemporary American landscape. Her poetry has been featured in The Ethel Zine, volumes 5 and 9. You can find Marie on Twitter at @shoelessbanshee
Photo by Corina Rainer on Unsplash
