By John Maurer

Anhedonia and espresso and a calendar years’ worth of prescription tablets
Only took me eight years to wake up in a different bed in a different state
It took me healing to realize I was even wounded in the first place
Looking at the blood trails snail-tracked back miles behind me
I’ve been strapped down to a gurney for my own safety
They tell you the same things about the steel-wire woven windows
My house has a ghost with no business to finish; he sits around bored and bitching all day
Occasionally he is visible and can be seen, but no one ever sees him in my home but me
He writes my poetry, he works my job, he fucks my girlfriend
He looks in my mirror and sees me
and on some days, it feels like he’s me

Photograph by Kyle Ryan

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