My ghosts are invisible to eyes other than
Ones trained by history to see them
I try to blind myself to their presence
Yet their darkness penetrates my eyelids
Their voices soundlessly fall upon unknowing companions
Yet their silence screams into my head
Showering me with hateful words
Worthless. Stupid. Loser.
You deserved what you got.
You are destroyed – why even try?
Even God hates you.
I cover my ears with my hands and
Like a child I repeat meaningless chants
I try to ignore their vicious words
I wish them good riddance but
These ghosts stubbornly won’t go away
Clamoring to be seen and heard
They are squatters in my soul
Admittedly I too wave my hands when I am unseen
And raise my voice when I am unheard
Thus I demand my rightful presence in the world
What do these ghosts know of friendship?
Have they ever heard words of encouragement?
Surely they are deeply wounded beings
Carrying the burden of my past
How would they react to kindness?
Perhaps I could bake them some cookies and
Introduce them to the taste of sweet comfort
If I could see them without being blinded
And hear them without going deaf
We might walk under the shelter of trees
And share our stories with each other
Maybe if I gently and carefully introduce them
To the same love the Universe shows me
My ghosts might relax into a sense of safety
It is time to welcome them home.
© Karen Privé, February 2019
Homecoming
