Some nights I cannot sleep.
The ghost is angry.
Unable to complete its revenge,
its helplessness keeps feeding another layer of fury.

It has all the time death allows.
It never leaves.
Never.
Its hatred seeps into my sleepless nights.
I could endure its haunting
if only it learned how to stop.

Sometimes
it is doors slamming,
walls breathing,
wind finding impossible cracks.
Other nights,
it sobs.
It begs.
Its grief is so immense
that I begin to wonder
how much suffering
a dead thing can survive.

I mourn
that a ghost can keep living.
Then again,
I am not among the living either.
I cannot leave it alone.
Even though it hates me.

One night,
whether from guilt,
mercy,
revenge,
or forgiveness—
its presence
entered me completely.

It had no face,
yet I felt its eyes.
No arms,
yet I was held.
And its voice—
its voice
became a lullaby.
For the first time,
I slept.

Photo Francesca Woodman.