It is Not the Ghosts that Haunt Me

I had a dream once, and they decided not to leave. 

They had been knocking about my skull for a few weeks now—scratching, biting, saying all sorts of silly things. I even heard them telling stories to their children—oh yes, they breed in here—about Athena and Zeus and how she burst out of his skull when Hephaestus cracked it on his anvil. “That makes her clever, oh so clever!” they sneer from behind my eyes, just to tease me. I know they’ll never do it—they much prefer my throat. I can feel them tickling it just to get a laugh. Bursting out my mouth, I think that makes them hungry. Just enough to scream. 

They will return with their treasures, leaving me with tastes stranger than bitter—offerings to their temple. “Praise! We can be gods!” I pray for them to leave, but they’re the only ones listening. They’re laughing at me. It’s funny, I think, but that could just be them. 

I know better. Dreams and gods can’t survive in city sunlight. They starve alone on noisy streets with loud conversation. I hold in my laughter and say nothing when people ask why they see my teeth. 

I’m not smiling. It’s a secret. I’ll tell you on another day. I forgot—I say, lying through my teeth. 

I want to cough so badly. 

They won’t stop eating me.