living ghosts

This is a poem about my dead friend:

she’s not dead,

not really,

but I was, for a while

and she wouldn’t visit me in hospital.

I think she had a sickness

because her words slide out too easily.

When I see her next

slurred,

mouth too wide

she’s exaggerated

a cartoon in motion.

It’s a while before the dam breaks,

not too long,

I’m still

recovering

and they reveal:

they’ve had a meeting.

It had an agenda,

someone took minutes,

they’re killing me

killing us

placing a clear divide

between life and death

the alive and the dead

and i’m not a part of their puzzle

anymore.

I don’t remember my food

(dead girls can’t taste)

but i remember crying

and how emotionless she was

maybe dead girls can’t feel.

One

or both of us

was missing some senses

severed at the root

to stave off the infection

I felt her death

like a phantom limb

but she’d gone numb

to mine.

MAX PERRY is a queer non-binary writer, student, and activist. They have a degree in Politics from the University of Southampton and are currently studying an MA in Conflict, Security, and Development at the University of Sussex. They write poetry, fiction, and non-fiction in their free time, as well as dabbling in cross-stitch and fandom, often at the same time. They are fuelled by chicken nuggets and rage at injustice, and they aspire to change the world through both words and action. Their tweets can be found @maxlper.