I’m not a ghost, but you touch me as if you can’t feel anything, expression absent of fascination, hands still like there is no meaning to my skin. I shiver a lot because I wish you were obsessed with me. Sometimes I stagger up the stairs just to see if you think I’m helpless. I often imagine you asking if I am fine.
“Not always, but I am an outstanding liar.”Would be my response.
Tonight when you touch me, a tear slides down my jaw, tracing it in silver. “Your emotions are sloppy. Organize your brain.” You tell me. I smile, though I really mean to ask for affection.
I won’t stumble upstairs this time. I’ll sleep on them until I grow into the wood and you can step on me.
Ashlie Allen is a frequent contributor to Vending Machine Press. She likes Merlot, a lot.