Ghostly Senses

I used to sleep on my stomach,

eyes and left ear buried in the crook of my left elbow,

right palm pressing into my right ear.

reducing my senses to touch, smell, and taste.

We wouldn’t need those in sleep anyway.

My momma told me, “Close your eyes and tell them to go away.”

When my eyes opened again, I was surprised to see

they had obeyed. 

But still, I asked her every night,

“Check on me before you go to bed?”

Only a momentary comfort, but I couldn’t help

the magnitude of hurt at morning’s dawn

    “You forgot.”

Now I’m only haunted by the people

I never knew or

the people I ghosted or 

the people who only saw 

my hands as barriers,

rendering me deaf and blind,

creating instead of warding off ghosts.

And I know I’m the one to blame, but I can’t help

the magnitude of hurt at memory’s dawn

    “You forgot.”

I now sleep on my side,

eyes shut and never opened,

ear plugs shoved deep,

shutting out the world

so in my dreams I can summon them,

a ghostly army at my command.