Begging
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.