There’s a girl somewhere

who leaves notes

in bathroom stalls, begging

people to stay alive.

In her eyes, she is still

eleven, and really,

she’s only begging herself.

You decide this girl is

a ghost, because you can’t

beg the past for something

the future already offers.

But you don’t see her eyes,

or how her hands pull at

her own arms,

bones shifting beneath

her skin.

You don’t see the year before,

when she was throwing

these notes into rivers,

lakes, and oceans that cried.

You see her

and decide she must be a ghost.

But if she is—

then aren’t we all?

Ghosts of the past,

nostalgia-thick throats,

mouths foaming

with prayers for better days.

And we are all

begging for something,

whether the world

chooses to listen or not.

We are all begging.