Ghosted Words

why don't we say what we mean

If aging is a euphemism for dying, then what shall we call living?

She passed away- but what did she actually pass? Pass up a job, pass by a stranger- no she died. She didn’t pass that.

 

We put him down because he didn’t feel good.

Where did you put him? By the oak tree, by the creek? the little girl asked.

We had him injected with a drug that stopped his heart.

The little girl smiled and skipped away.

 

They broke up. What did they break?

Snapped a commitment in two- look he’s sobbing.

 

We were economically disadvantaged my mom said, but Wall Street didn’t want us because I couldn’t buy shoes.

 

They were collateral damage- those on the side, not intended for the harm as opposed to those who were. Who’s damaged?

Bleeding, ripped, torn, flesh breathing unnatural air, the stench of damage- I’m talking about the hearts of those left behind.

 

“The little boy, he didn’t make it...” the middle aged woman paused with a saddened frown.

Silence permeated the air as I crinkled my eyebrows.

“You know- he didn’t make it out of the rubble so he suffocated on bubbles of blood that erupted into his throat from his little punctured lungs.”

My history teacher told me they performed an ethnic cleansing. I wondered why he looked so confused when I told him I ethnically cleanse myself every day on the way to class when I plaster a smile on my face pretending my skin is pearly white, stripped clean.

 

We might have banged, I can’t remember the name of the shooting gallery but I never loved you. Love is not a gun.

 

Little blonde pigtails bounced to and fro as the little girl ran up to her father as he returned home from work while the warmth of the sun disappeared behind the caramel colored hills- “Daddy, is kicking the bucket like kick the can? Can we play?”

“Sorry darlin’, not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

 

Is the dog sleeping?

No we put him to sleep.

Where’d you put him?

He’s dead.

 

They might be with God, but they certainly aren’t here, certainly not with me.

 

I lost my temper a lot when I was younger, it was in my bag of marbles- I never found it again.

 

When grandma died, my cousin told me she fell asleep. I suppose I do that too, every night.

I suppose she only did that once.

 

She got knocked up after high school, at least that’s what I heard.  This implies the actions of one. A man and a woman had sex and an egg got fertilized when neither intended it- but yeah, there’s knocking on her door.

 

“Mom, can I sleep around?”

“Good heaven’s no, who said anything like that?”

“Big sister. I like sleeping in different places too.”

 

Birds and bees swarmed my mind, but I was only 13 and didn’t want to get stung.

 

My friend told me they did it.

And was surprised when I asked what it was.

She didn’t get it.

What we talk about when we talk about love.

Sex is not love.

 

Curvy. full figured. thick. They wondered why the scale made me cry.

 

I lost my sister. I suck at directions, but she had a GPS and a good sense of where she was and where she was going. The car still crushed her head.

Must be your time of the month. Does he know what that means?

He must.

He saw the blood stain on my calendar.

 

I fell in love. But it wasn’t love. and I didn’t fall. I jumped.

 

In the spring, she celebrated because it was her turn to push up daisies. She loved those little flowers- delicate and sweet, filled with hope. The excitement left her eyes when she closed them. We buried her in the ground and poured dead daisies on her grace because they were ripped from life too soon. The 7-year-old was dead and we wept.

 

Game over- you lose.

 

“To make lies sound truthful and murder respectable.”- George Orwell

Reviews

[C. Lee Battaglia]

This intense piece of work was very touching and moving!
It had me think and relate to a lot of things that most of us go through in life.
It was heartfelt and captivating.
Keep up the great work!

Your friend,

C. Lee Battaglia