ghost stories are for campfires

ghost stories are for campfires.

you sit and carve,

stab,

burn,

flesh turning brittle, skin blackening and peeling off in chunks,

the fire licking at your fingers,

and then you eat your marshmallow,

meeting the ghosts, their failures, their anger.

you taste the bitter tang of soot and ash in your mouth,

feel the burn creeping beneath your skin,

and you listen to the fire cackle.

is it laughing?

having fun?

you don’t know

but you know that

ghost stories are for campfires,

not for family tables.

you sit here, too,

you carve—your smile; carefully, politely, until it’s a mask; skin pulled tight over teeth.

you stab—not the food, but your inner child; a jagged edge pressed into the soft, delicate parts of it.

you burn—not your mouth, but rage that claws at your throat.

and then you eat your food,

wondering when you became the marshmallow—frayed at the edges, left in the fire for too long, the skin of your soul black and bruised from the sticks they jabbed into you.

you meet your ghosts, your failures, your anger.

you swallow, but it doesn’t go down right—the food, the words.

you listen to them cackling

are you laughing?

having fun?

you don’t know

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