Ghosts, or otherwise known as more emotional barf.

Just some stuff.

The ghost in the corner.

That one.

The damp eyes, glassy marbles.

Blotchy skin. Red and swollen with crying. 

“Salt makes everything better. Sweat, tears, and the sea.”

It’s true.

Sometimes.

Soul empty. 

Almost peace.

Almost turmoil.

She’s walking the fine line between, metaphorical bricks crumbling under her weightless feet. Mortar rotting and giving way as she tightrope-walks the frail wall of life.

Between peace and turmoil.

That awesome, empty, aching feeling that hurts so good. That feeling where she’s spilled out everything and she’s all gone and spent mixed with the bittersweet taste of confidentiality, hoping that it stays and hoping that mere friendship can preserve what she’s just imparted, and that heavy, weightless feeling settling on her lungs so that each breath just hurts.

Hurts so good

She’s made peace. She likes it. Peace feels good. Turmoil doesn’t. It’s still writhing underneath her skin, but she’s letting it go. She’ll work it out eventually.  But for now, she’s going to enjoy the temporary silence. The roaring silence, screaming, ripping at the seams. But it’s not breaking.

Hasn’t broken.

Yet.