Ghost Stories Shot By Light

A Poem by PriyaKavina

What's your story? They asked.
I looked them firmly in the eyes
What's your story? They asked again.
I saw the smirks on their faces
This was the third week they had asked me
Come on, everyone has a story, they laughed.
This was the 21st day they had asked me
You've got nothing but your story, they taunted.
This was the fifty-eighth time they had asked me
What's your story?

And on the
fifty-ninth time, 22nd day, and fourth week, I decided…
They never asked me for my history,
They asked me for my story
It's not true, you know
Not everyone has a story,
But we all do have a history

So I anchored my decision,
And I told them a story

I lived a simple life until I was seven,
me with my other half.
We had grown up together, done everything together,
But the fighting never stopped
and neither did the resistance.
And no matter our similarities,
no mater how indistinguishable they thought us to be,
We never were the same person
As children, it was playful animosity,
she didn’t bother me much.
She stayed quiet, and we would sometimes confront each other,
in need of a playmate.
As we grew older, the world began to see us as one,
and animosity was quickly rejuvenated as venomous abhorrence.
They could no longer distinguish me from her.
She wanted what I had,
what I have is too much to put into words,
and her jealously fueled an evil creativity
They began to think I was crazy, so they began to surveil
with immense precision
And, of course, this drove me near insanity
I never did have a choice, it was her plan all along, and I have always known it.
She began to act out and I grew tired of deficient self defense.
And so the masquerade began.
They never saw her; not only was she ghost-like but so was her veil.
Sometimes they walked past me
like even I don’t exist
But I do,
in every consciousness.
Sometimes I walk past the mirror and see her reflection,
That’s when I know progression is diseased with degeneration.
What if they never see me?

All the things that I can't write down
remain pondering in the ocean that is my mind.
These things,
they can't swim
but they can't sink either,
so what do I do?
They're just there.
And the person who could answer this,
is the one I cannot ask.
Why?
Because if it's said, if its written down,
I admit defeat
for this gives her access to this information.
So it remains here,
in my mind,
not swimming,
not sinking.

So here I sit, staring at a blank page,
imagining writing it all out,
explicit in every detail.
But here I sit, staring at a blank page,
imaging she found out.
So I guess progress is out of the question.
Now that I think about it,
maybe it's a good thing,
to not write it all out,
for if I did,
I would sit here and endlessly read it over and over again.
But that would be better than
hearing it over and over in my mind,
wouldn't it?

They stared at me
And I stared equally back
That's your story? They asked, hushed
The sixtieth time
No, I said
But, to you, that would validate why I'm here