What Remains in the Dark
a dialogue with the self, the ghost, and what lingers
I took a chance, and your suspicions were right.
I am invulnerable.
I am not.
You're here again.
I'm tired of your presence.
Leave me alone,
you soul-sucking monster.
Without you,
I don't know where my path leads.
I don't know what to do with myself.
What does life feel like
without you?
My friend.
My playmate.
My ghost.
My demon.
You know who you are.
I shrink when you're near,
yet you find me every time.
We carry enough rage between us.
Let us throw it to the wind.
I could fill an entire book
with stories of how you ruined my days—
and the strange ways
you made them worth remembering.
I am irritated.
Perplexed.
Stop making excuses, writer.
Our playground drew the parallels
that still follow me home.
Listen.
I have grown wary of them.
You have no right
to occupy every room in my mind.
You even brought company.
Tell them to leave.
You said you wanted me,
so I cut you away.
Your explanations
have become old songs.
You call me your finest painting.
We are both mistaken.
I am not immune to harm.
Not now.
Not ever.
I need space.
So I step back.
And yet—
I am vulnerable.
I miss my greys.
I miss my dark.
what remains when even the darkness starts to leave?
Curious where these stories came from? Read the inspiration behind this poem here:

[…] What Remains in The Dark emerged from a conversation I had been avoiding for years—a conversation with the parts of myself I wanted to outgrow, silence, reject, or leave behind. […]
[…] Writing this section reminded me of the emotional archaeology I explored in What Remains in the Dark. […]