North by Northwestern // Photo by Gia Yetikyel 

You don't need to be Forgiven.

I walked into church after a decade, with the exception of prayers to only Ghosts I had previously loved and never said goodbye to. Because I am constantly trying to prove myself when this god cannot even prove itself. So I say now, you do not need to be forgiven. As I am the oracle you constantly check over your shoulder for, losing your sanity just a little more as an attempt to grow closer to a god who won't respond to your texts, to the Ghosts who make my floors creak but refuse to hold my hands. Please. Hold me. The time of apologies have caused the drought forming in my gut. But I lay here now asking you, and only you:


My love,

Forgive me.

The world has continued its revolution when I have been stuck on the same song. A scratched record producing the scent of burning hair. A song I was meant to hear but immediately forget, only intended for those minutes. A man I was meant to know, only in a dream, only in flashes. For you are as real as what I conceive of you.

Meaning: you are as real as my own surgical scars and opened scabs.

Meaning: you were here with me even as you couldn't remember who stared at your reflection, even with your name written on your arm.

It wasn't supposed to be me who had to remember the both of us. But each conversation was not about what was felt, rather, what was said. As words with you never stuck to your skin like it did mine. But sometimes I will scrub my body raw, thinking of the sound of your breathing as you fell asleep, while I stayed awake praying to your god. Praying to my Ghosts. Praying. And praying. Never provoking too hard.

Oh, the day I stop asking for forgiveness is the day I will no longer turn my head to the rare echo of your voice, just loud enough for the right ears, just loud enough to make the right melody. It's all become static, so convinced it is far more than what it truly is. Some say Ghosts can speak through the white noise. I'm tired of talking to Ghosts.