I lay in bed and hear the sound of a cry, or maybe a howl or a bark. I close my eyes tight till it hurts. My sheets over my head. Everything tight and protective. I know the ghost is coming.
I can tell he wants to get me. To touch me. To know flesh. I do not want this to happen.
There is a ribbon of doubt inside of my heart, a pink ribbon that ties tighter all logic and the fear it makes me shake.
I feel a bio-electric manifestation pushing its weight on the mattress. I ask him please, I beg of you, leave, in the name of the lord. Warm waves flow through my middle parts.
Please, don’t hurt me, I say. It whispers my name. I know he is here.
Warm waves in my mouth, warm waves pulsing high up between my hips, and my lips, my lips they open to receive the whisper.
The smell is hard to describe, mostly sulphur but with a touch of sweetness like a watermelon. Something in the air jumps with friction and grows heavy on my chest. But not burdensome. A child is the ghost, a baby.
He asks me to push aside the sheets. I do not move for a long time, until the magic burns curious. He washes me with desire. I peek out with one eye. The baby ghost pulls the sheets at least two feet into the air and holds me on the bed with his mind. I writhe there, never having to show my small breasts to anyone before. I can feel the glitter rain on my naked skin.
He has sparkling ooze dripping from him, as if he, in the form of death, can not contain the bleeding and loss of man’s betrayal. He had so much ahead. Draped across his torso a thousand little flowers. Pale and timid in the afterlife, a child grown in spirit but without the knowledge of a suffering body. I can not see his tiny face.
He is a light. A golden answer to my darkest thoughts.
I lay naked before him and he exults over my breast. Plasma slipping and twinkles over his polite brow. Not one drop of ooze or anything even runs on my stomach. His whispers lay on my tongue all through the night until the rushing in of morning light extinguishes those things which one can not touch but can only know somewhere deep in the imagination. The air, all day, can be caressed and calls my name like lovers do.
He confides secrets to me about death. He tells me it feels like your intestines unravel and float you suspended in air like a kite. He tells me his name is Richard and he died in my room. Found not breathing under a pile of blankets. One hundred cuts. His squeal replaced by a mature wail of grief.
He tells me, he says he wanders all day. I ask him if it’s hard not to breathe. He says it’s more natural to not breathe. I ask him if he can see and hear. He says he can, but it’s faster and brighter and louder because he’s with the lady of tears. I tell him I am in love with him. His fingers press into mine, no larger than pea pods.
I wake up in the morning kissing the air about me with my tongue. I place seashells on the table next to my bed saying, as I always do;
‘For Sacred Heart
With all my love.’
I then kneel, bend over in heartache and pray with my hands together. “Take me away tonight, my ghost. My baby.” I pick up a sea shell and hold it into my palm. When I open it is filled with warm pearls.
I am scared. At first it makes a sound like the one Tinkerbell doll made when you press it’s hand. It comes from the bathroom. The bathtub is full of green moss and Richard is floating, damned, baby boy, white eyes losing their gloss.
The fear I held in my heart disappears within seconds of seeing the ghost, and I step up to the tub quick with the intention of getting in and curling around the baby to comfort him.
I forget what is supposed to happen. The tub is a dry tub, empty, a shower curtain pulled aside and collecting mildew. Richard is gone. A piercing sound. There are black veins in the porcelain that crumble and fall down into darkness.
A hole is forming. I look into it for a few seconds, amazed by the thought of nothing.
Richard stands tall behind me, takes a tear from the hollow of his eyes and touches my arm. I become calm. I touch the ache part of my chest. It becomes calm and relaxed. Like on a sunny day. The miraculous hour passed.
This sand in my eyes hot hot and crispy. My eyes are wet burns. I close them and lay on the floor. Cold linoleum. I dream.
All around me there is skin, but the skin smells like copper. I do know what that means. I touch and touch for miles but there is no end to it. Some child, I think, making circles in time like this. This is the tunnel I hear about. I crawl through and through. I wake up again. I feel and see the baby beside me. The tiny hands. Long legs. Taking my clothes off and holding me. And even though I like it for some reason I am scared to look into his face. I finally look up and see the beautiful blonde boy with leonine eyes. I can feel his muscles and his chest. His full lips, beautiful pink gums and white teeth. Everything about him is so tiny.
I place my lips on his tiny baby lips. I can feel the love I want to give him. Nothing has ever felt so alive inside of me. And he wants to make love with me, but I don’t know how to. He shows me his member. It is huge. I think he is imagining this. I think this is the way he thinks it should be for me. The afterlife is magic.
He takes my hand and puts it over it. He says to me he goes “want to do it with you” I say “no wait”. The lights are off but he is a light. He crowds over me and I push my arms through his arms, hooking them over his shoulders and pulling him as close as I can. Nothing but an electric spider web, and weight, and the cotton or copper.
The patience in the room is heavy like breathing wool. My eyes shut still, something grabs my arms and I feels the last fear, feet lifting off the ground, being dropped and then air rushing up from toes to the ends of hair, eyes closed, not one man or ghost reaching out to stop the falling.