you have my hospital ghosts now - elizabeth whitington lyrics
there was a door here
some type of abstraction through a prism
i gaze into it and it freezes me to complacency
i pick up my tool of choice and i release more paint from myself
it stains the walls and the carpet and the shower drain and your encouragement sticky notes and everything you ever touched and everything i ever loved
it’s a pressing of the power b*tton to reveal some form of monstrous, unnameable, incomprehensible terror that has always stood behind the curtains
i want death to take me, to hold me as its own
wring my body out with heavy machinery and spit me out into the deep chasm of dark, kicking and screaming
i want to breathe and know that i am worthy of the air that passes through me
there’s a home built on top of every brain that forms in the womb
some self*contained reminder of where we started
i used to tell my mom that she picked me from heaven herself
i was a glimmering angel star, handed down to earth by a loving mother and father
i met everybody i would ever know through the great divided starscapes
i formed my face, my hands, my brain with my own will
i told my mom i picked her out from heaven and attached to her like lichen
i was told i was supposed to be a runny bloodstain on a linoleum floor
i was told my father was a paranoid neurotic womanizer misanthrope
i was shown a photo of my lost sister from the moment i was able to remember faces
she’s in san francisco working as a social worker;
the same profession as my dad and the same profession my sister will take
i will never meet her in the flesh
she never thinks about me, i’m sure of it
soon enough, there were hands and kisses and bite marks and blood no matter where i stepped
needles dragged across the skin, never given the satisfaction of the finality of the cold metal plunging into your arm
he kept clowns in his shelves
i close my eyes and erase these works from the world
lighting a candle for each memory i ruined with my presence
transmasc friends with four*letter names always telling me to see the “bright side” of things
have i really gotten better, or have you gotten worse at noticing?
or have i gotten better at being silent?
blurry*eyed f*ggot that should’ve stayed in the closet
they call me a name that will never match my face
they’ll read these words and laugh at the melancholy;
stupid little f*cking tranny who won’t shut up about getting facef*cked in third grade by another classmate
my trauma seems pretty manageable compared to theirs, what am i still b*tching about?
do i always need something to b*tch about when i make my “art”?
does it even matter if i have something to say?
do i have the guts to say everything without the ghost screams covering up the poorly*formed letters?
will you see me after i leave?
“life has rejected me,” he said, “and i reject life. it is just as it is written
antiochus would have been so proud.”
~~~
“hospital ghosts” refer to remnants and reminders of things you will never be able to return to. you’ll see a hair spinning around the shower drain and you’ll think of them, knowing they’ll never think of you as anything more than a regrettable misstep on their path to wellness. you’ll see their faces in your dreams, every time you close your eyes. you’ll have filled up your room with mountains of evidence that you used to matter to them. they took photos of you, they shared their home with you; there must’ve been a time when they would’ve died for you and vice versa. now all you’ll ever be is a face on a phone; a blocked number, a ripped polaroid, a defective curio of a past they never want to see again
hospital ghosts are the lingering reminders. their hands reach out to you now. they will never not be there and you will never stop seeing them. they live in the hospitals we build atop our brains. shuffling and in a constant state of withdrawal, seizing and screaming any chance they get. stuck in chemo. sickly little concepts that upkeep a garden in the back, near the parking lot. you go there sometimes in your dreams. when you get there, you always fall facefirst, no matter what direction you’re facing. scattered smocks lining up the fluorescent lights. a constant smell of blood and medical equipment. the feeling of waiting in a chair, your name being called the exact moment you get up to leave.”
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