The sun beats down.
Broken, bleached bones
of something
break under my footsteps.

Stumbling under the rays.
The sun glares at me.
Escaped from hell,
or as close as an earthling can come.

I did nothing wrong,
nothing in my eyes that is.
”Normal” folk say I am a murderer,
but truth lies in me.

Anything I have done
was for a good cause,
and anything that has happened
was not my intention

Dad died last year.
Did I do it? Nope.
But the ghosts did.
I never killed no one.

The ghosts that ran amuck--
floated, rather--
did it. Will you not believe?
His name was Angel.

This ghost I speak of
was white but never dead.
He had hair as soft as a baby gorilla’s,
skin as white as notebook paper.

Imagine the lines on loose leaf
the same blue as his veins.
I swear he had wings.
But no one knew him at all.

I was crazy for talking.
Crazy for finding new people.
Crazy for starting conversation.
Crazy in general.

Angel killed him, not I.
Just because you don’t see
doesn’t mean he doesn’t know,
doesn’t mean he isn’t real.

Angel so beautiful,
purest body seen by me.
No one knows,
no one but little ol’ me.

Killer Angel.
Never found.
Never here.
Never gone.

Daddy’s not here.
Killed by an angel.
Daddy’s gone.
I am not.

I found myself in a house
filled with little people.
Smaller than Angel.
Stronger than me.

But I am clever,
more so than them.
I watch then scuttle
like little, helpless, beheaded chickens.

But witty me,
I am gone,
and walk along the beach,
feet in the water,
cursing the day I was conceived.

One day I will be found.
And I will die. Again.
But until then, I am still dead,

in the heart but not in the head.
I imagine the little bones
crunching under my feet
are of people like me, escapees of a bitter past,
hoping to find what will never last.
Watching the terror,
just as I do now.