Ghost

Life is strange sometimes.
Some days, it feels full—
bright with light,
like maybe I belong.

But then,
without warning,
It gets darker than the night.

There are moments when I feel seen.
Sought.
But most days—
I feel
Fought.

So, I retreat.
Like a ghost,
I hover at the edge of things,
watching conversations I can’t quite enter,
afraid I’ll say the wrong thing.
Or worse—
nothing at all.

Oh, won’t somebody summon me, please?
Say my name in three, and I’ll be there for thee.

I’ve become something in between.
Not dead—
but not fully alive either.

The echoes of my past still moan beneath my skin.
The way I was raised taught me to be quiet,
to wait.
To only come forward when asked.
No wonder I’m always waiting.

Oh, won’t somebody summon me, please?
Say my name in three, and I’ll be there for thee.

I want to be part of something—
to be held in the space where others laugh, talk, exist.
And though I’m told I matter,
though I sometimes feel it...
it slips through me,
like light through fog.

Oh, won’t somebody summon me, please?
Say my name—just once—and I’ll be there for thee.

On “Ghost”

This poem was born from a place I know all too well—a space between wanting to belong and fearing I never truly will.

Ghost isn’t just a metaphor. It’s how I’ve often felt: close enough to see others connect, yet unsure if I’m meant to step into that circle myself. There are moments where I watch from the edge of conversations, hesitant to speak—not because I have nothing to say, but because a part of me has learned to wait. To watch. To only come forward when invited.

The refrain—“Won’t somebody summon me?”—isn’t just a dramatic echo. It’s a quiet hope. A wish to be called in gently, with care. And the line “Say my name in three, and I’ll be there for thee” holds a deeper meaning for me. It reflects the way I long to be brought into spaces with intention, with warmth. When I feel included—truly seen—I show up wholeheartedly. With presence, with loyalty, with love. But I rarely assume I’m wanted without a sign.

The ghost is the version of me that learned to keep still, to not take up space unless asked. But writing helps me find my voice again. Each poem, each word, is a way of stepping forward—of summoning myself.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re on the outside looking in, I hope this poem reaches you. Maybe it becomes a quiet invitation—both to be seen and to begin seeing yourself anew.