Written in recovery: I never believed in ghosts until I lived with one Until I nearly became one. For years after I let that dead version of myself follow me around. I dragged the carcass everywhere. Took my dead body off to college, propped her up in class. Everything felt heavy but nothing heavier than the dead weight of another body. It may have been manageable, if the ghost would have moved on. Instead, it came with me, taunting me. Constantly reminding me I should be dead. Cold fingers traced the vertical scars Symetrical, severing my forearms. The ghost fed on me until I began to fade. Nights I found myself on the edge of an overpass, luggin a body. The echoes of "Jump" hanging in the air. I woke up in bed, a small slice of sanity missing from my head. I stayed awake begging my ghost to tell me what she needed. That morning I swung my feet over the bed lighter. I left my carcass in bed, covers tucked under her chin. The whispers faded out. "Let go" echoing heavy in my chest.