Ghost

Today, you are there. Looking at me, but through me.

Today, you are there.
Looking at me, but through me.
Your gaze skims past,
lingering for a fraction too long,
like you’ve noticed me sitting there
in a row of exiles.
And yet you move on—
no recognition, or perhaps too much.
You don’t want to stop.

I am lava.

I am a ghost.

I think back to the day I sat in your office.
You ushered me in,
asked if I was worried about being seen.
But I wasn’t.
I carried no shame for seeking help.
I was broken, and I needed a therapist.

You already had a name for it—Complex PTSD.
It was a tentative diagnosis,
waiting to be confirmed.
I had shared so much in confidence,
spilling open in a way that felt reckless
but also necessary.

You knew HIM.
You were part of us.
Perhaps it was a mistake,
choosing you,
but I don’t regret my honesty.

I remember breaking down in front of you.
The day after “D-Day.”
I told you everything—
the loss of my best friend,
my “family,”
the unbearable hurt of speaking up.
I remember you standing at the whiteboard,
trying to make sense of my chaos.

And you helped.
For the first time in a long time, I felt safe.
For the first time, I felt seen.

But I was lava.
And you couldn’t hold me.

I am a ghost.

You had to let me go,
and I understand now.
It wasn’t just professional ethics.
It was HIM.

When HE was found guilty by the interim elders,
I dared to ask if I could return.
I didn’t know then that you’d stayed.
I didn’t know that,
even after everything,
you and your family were still loyal.

I hadn’t seen you for years.
Half the membership list hadn’t been there for years.
But they all came when called.
His soldiers, summoned for war.

So today, I sat in that row of exiles—
behind a row of exiles,
beside a row of exiles,
beneath a stage of exiles.

And you walked past.
You looked through me.
And you passed me by.

I get it. I’m lava.
And you, more than most, know what that means.

Since seeing you, I’ve been officially diagnosed.
Complex PTSD. It’s real.
I hope the rumors haven’t twisted that.
I’m only just starting to find my footing again,
thanks to my writing, my friends,
and my current psychologist.
She tells me to keep fighting,
to ensure truth is on trial,
not trust misplaced.

But you went back to HIM.
And all I can ask is why.
After everything you know,
everything you’ve seen,
why?

I grieve the memory of moments.
That interstate flight,
the world stage we stood on,
the bond, sharing a story of love for humans in deep need. 

She held the fort for me once,
helped me find my footing in the chaos.
Now she looks through me.
I try to catch her eye,
but she won’t meet mine.

You’ve likely heard the stories—
the half-truths,
the tales warped to fit agendas.
I’m sure you’ve heard mine,
told with motives twisted beyond recognition.

Still, I want you to know this:
I’m here.
I’m open.
I’m not rejecting you

I’m not a ghost.