By Becca Robertson
I step into the room, and it’s blank.
White walls and carpet, or maybe a rug
I can’t tell.
Flashes of the room begin to come together.
Memories of the vanity
with every candle I could find lit in pitch black.
How the trim on the ceiling warped when we got high
with all kinds of shapes and colors.
I can hear the water from the fish tanks trickling on the other side of the room
Full of colorful fish.
Over there is the couch of dreams I called it
an antique 70’s bright orange and red couch I found at a thrift store
I was obsessed.
Then my head turns towards the center of the room
and there’s my bed.
I don’t remember the sheets or pillows
it’s blank.
Not light, but dark
Like if I were to sit there,
it may swallow me whole
I sit anyway
Confronted with why the bed is so dark
she tells me he’s still here
It’s not safe.
I feel her fear.
My skin crawls when I feel her discomfort
My chest tightens when I feel how this room closed in on her
She was trapped.
Her bright, beautiful room turned dark.
“Goodbye, ghost,” I said.
She turns to me
The dark circles under her eyes look like mine.
“What?” she said.
Goodbye, ghost.
A ghost can’t stay where they’re not welcomed
Their whispers cannot be heard from the shallow grave of which they reside.
This was never yours to battle alone
Say goodbye to the ghost.
He can only stay in this space if I let him
and I’m not letting him anymore.
This space is for you
and you alone.
Your fish, couch, art, music
It’s yours.
Not his.
The beauty that has always been there,
has always been
you.
Becca Robertson is an emerging poet from Fremont, Nebraska. Her creative writings and poems can be found on her Substack @becca840689. Her glass art can be found on Instagram @becca_r789 or TIktok @becca_r345.