You're still my ghost

Ghosting, by Maddy Hart.

I've become quite skilled at ghosting.

Leaving, without a trace. Hoping

they forget me.

The first time, I had realized he saw girls as objects. Why did it matter if I became his ghost? I was invisible to him already; an idea; someone who wasn't made from matter, but rather, air.

(I forget air is matter, too. I was never very good at science.)

The second time I was asked what I weighed. In that moment I was already a ghost. I didn't need to become one. I already felt my bones melting into nothingness 

(I wanted to say I weighed nothing; ghosts never do, and to them I was a ghost and not a person. Of course I didn't weigh anything.)

The third time, I just turned around and left the coffee shop. Made myself a ghost, prayed they didn't notice my leaving. I have sworn to myself that this was different; that I wasn't a ghost; that I just needed more time.

(There's never enough time to spend with you.)

Sometimes I wonder if I become a ghost for myself, if it's too toxic to say a proper “goodbye.” If I know they will retaliate so I make myself invisible; a concept.

Other times, I wonder if I've just never been good with the finality of a goodbye.

That I've never learnt how to properly leave someone.

That I have learnt how to be left but never to leave.

Maybe ghosts hide out of fear.

Or maybe they haunt us because they can't deal with finality, either.

Either way, I'm not sorry I didn't text you back.

I'm not sorry for being your ghost.

(Every fuckboy needs some good old fashioned haunting.)