Ive been scrubbing the floors ever since.

I invite my ghosts in and tell them to stay for awhile. I’m growing quieter each day. It’s like the world has its hands around my throat- gasping for the same air that you breath- squeezing tighter until everything flashes.

Quietness echoing through the spaces between my heart and rib cage- as if my lungs were never there. My ears chime with the echoing sigh- I hear my blood crash like waves against the walls of my veins. The humid air rises to my brain quickly like a fever I can’t sweat out. Everyone begs to feel the heat from the the fire until they get burned. I never craved that type of warmth, anyways. I’ll stay on the ground where coldness creeps in.

And when I wake up on the floor, my ghosts offer me a hand. They say I’ve run out of steam and beg me to stand back up. For some reason I believe them. I want to listen to their pleas, but the linoleum feels cool against the back of my head. I pretend it’s soothing in between the churning of muscles in between my skull and skin that are trying to help me wake.

I ask myself how much lower can I sink? Then feel the tile crack beneath me. The earth creates a divot and starts to collapse inch by inch. The blood between my fingers collects in a pool under my palms. My ghosts lift me until I’m floating like a feather.

They remind me that grief is as sturdy as these broken tiles. I don’t think ghosts will ever tell you something that you don’t already know. They live like a shadow- a reflection of something else- a hue in the dark that you’ve seen before.

Closer, I need to feel closer- I wish I could get closer to God. I think he’s your God too. God, I want to bandage my wounds and forget about it all. Everyone tells me how nice of a guy Jesus is, I dare my ghosts to introduce me. They smile through the plea. I tell them that I’ll clean up the mess because I think it’s time for them to go back home.

I’ve been scrubbing the floors ever since.