Act I, Scene 1.

The moon flickers adulterous, pretending to love me and the ghosts I embrace for naught. It’s a serene Thursday night; I hide us from our reflections on tear-stained windows. The moon shines in her fleeting glory—the world moves on. 

The ghosts are sugary-sweet in their deceit, and they hug me tighter than I hold the stuffed toy on my bed. We are a cocoon of comfort-disguised suffocation; I welcome the whirlpool if only to feel the wind flow free. 

i am invisible shadows and thorn-torn roses

shivering suns on horizons i can never find

and parched ghosts living in my untrusting mind.

And yet: Hold on. 1, 2, 3, breathe.

Act I, Scene 2. 

The moon shines on, the sky beautiful and bright, yet the radiance mocks me as I tremble inside. The ghosts, like tides, sway to the moon’s siren song as she promises light, and like a drunken sailor, I follow desperately. But the candle has been in the cake too long; the wax melts. 

The ghosts entwine with my goosebumped skin, even as the arms that hold me are strong. My scars had faded in the Before, and I cry over illusory wounds, scab-picked. No one should—they shouldn’t—see me like this. I smile for my audience: for the furrowed brows and shush, I got you.

but i am chai spills and an unflinching dread of mirrors

ghosts whisper scorching sonnets in my ear

and making eye contact with love is my biggest fear.

And yet: “Hold on,” my friend whispers. 1, 2, 3, breathe.

Act II, Scene 1.

The ghosts follow me like the pining crescent moon chases the planets that spurned her 

devotion. I see you, she reassures them, but she sparkles with the weight of our shared false hope. Perhaps we aren’t enemies, but hostages to a stifling centripetal force, trying to hold on to an inconstant illumination.

Far away, I hear my mother. The line is scratchy, her voice muffled by my thoughts. She calls my name as I clutch onto sound and warmth. I try not to feel like a skipping stone that drowns. 

The ghosts loosen their hold.

i am sugar-char and tarnished silver rings

i try my best to believe in people’s good

and if trust could bid farewell to the ghosts, it would.

And yet: “Hold on,” the voices urge. 1, 2, 3, breathe.

Act III, Scene 1.

The wisps obscuring the moon recede, her enchanting siren song fading into a soothing lullaby. The thrashing ghosts enveloping my mind are reluctant, but the sounds of serenity push them away. A new minuet reminds me of my mother, friend, steady pulse, and love. 

Fairy lights, family photos, and unadulterated moonlight seep into my labyrinth, and the dizzying world—spinning on its axis—slows to a stop. Invisible nymphs threatening to spill caramel-sweet hope stop in their tracks. The world moves, but I move with it.

i am a colorful, cacophonic symphony

and past hurts, when triggered, seduce my mind

the ghosts may reappear but for now they’re left behind.

I cling to hope. 1, 2, 3, breathe.