Sometimes I am my ghost,
one of the demons haunting me –
a glass reflecting inward
on my inability.

Sometimes a passing spectre
wishing to remain unseen.
Absent from its current place
and nowhere in between.

Sometimes I am my devil
with its secrets left untold
and burdened with a beating heart
forever gray and cold.

Sometimes I am myself,
whoever that may be today,
for tomorrow is another scene
in the divine screenwriter’s play.

Sometimes I am my ghost.
The thought plays in my head,
and maybe somewhere in a dream,
I am what I should be instead.