by Hannah Whitman

"Ballerina Dreams" by Lydia Selk

by Hannah Whitman

There’s this ghost inside my room

we’ve become good friends,

we watch the shadows on my wall

and lay down on my bed.

I tell her all my secrets

She tells me stories of the grave,

the cold, the dark, the dampness

she’s become their slave.

Her hands are cold, her lips are blue

her heart no longer beats,

awake in spirit but forever under

the curse of eternal sleep.

I always wondered who she was

but was too afraid say,

until one day I sat her down

and asked her for her name.

She smiled. “You know who I am”

I simply said “I do?”,

she put her lips up to my ear

and whispered “I am you”.

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