Posessions

I’ll find you again

in the middle of the night,

I’ll see your shadow on my walls, haunting my unease.

I’ll see you, perhaps, stretching from the corner of my eyes

and you’ll descend over me when the sunlight entering through my window blinds me.

I’ll find you again,

with your claws around my throat,

rummaging through my vocal cords

in search for a moan, a howl,

or a whimper.

I’ll find you again,

I’ll know it when I run out of words,

when I run out of will to do anything,

when feeling just causes grief,

or when the thought of eternal rest crosses my mind.

And you always come back,

tiptoeing towards me, between breaths

and I do not notice until I find myself trapped in my bed,

almost dead, almost alive,

in a middle stage where there’s a will but it’s lacking.

I’m product of possessions

and every time that I find you

(suffocating, hurting, incessant)

I shed skin and bones

and turn little by little into ghosts of you.

I know I will find you again,

because sometimes I miss you,

because there’s days where you give more than you take,

and because I’ve spent so much time underneath this skin

that it’s so difficult to exorcise you without you taking parts of me.

I’ll find you again,

of that I’m sure.