No Longer a Ghost

The grim reaper stood over my grave, casting his gray gaze down on me
He tried, as he and I had for so many years, to understand the human emotion –
my human emotion –
born of my mother and her major depressive disorder
Of mental illness passed down from generation to generation,
handed off from one to the next like a baton
The family’s unified emotion

Or perhaps it was born of my father and his anxious emotional state,
gifted to him by his father’s biting words
Words that carried the same physical sensation as a fist to the eye
The doctor saw no bruises, had no medical advice,
but a scar formed all the same

It’s a fact that anyone who has a tendency to feel depressed knows –
Depression is a mental state at first
Then a country, a planet
Then the world

Before my death I had been experiencing sadness
The kind that burrows deep under your skin like a tick,
sucks the marrow from your bones,
comes away wide-eyed, grinning, blood dripping from its teeth
The kind that sinks to the bottom of your gut like a gravestone
A sign of depression, yes, but in others –

Never in you
After all, the mental health professionals say you’re just fine
But soon all things external link to nothing

As I lay in my grave, I realised I had entered a new era of existence
A new life event, the reaper called down to me
A new world order
Everyone feels sad at the end, especially those who felt sad at the beginning
It will pass, as you have
You are no longer a ghost

But still, a part of me longed for those days of endless nothing in my bedroom
Spending time counting the cracks in the ceiling
Learning to deal with sadness in ways that had been etched into my DNA

poems about death
Edgarda Allana Doe

Edgarda Allana Doe

Edgarda Allana Doe was born in Boston, Massachusetts and enjoyed a profoundly uneventful childhood, save for being orphaned at a young age. She joined the army soon after her 18th birthday, but quickly left with the hopes of pursuing her two true loves - writing poetry and short stories - instead. She was married once, but tragically lost her spouse to tuberculosis after just over 10 years of marriage. She has never gotten over this loss, and often makes mention of her beloved in her work. Over the course of her lifetime, she has worked for various literary journals; however, she has spent most of her time woefully unemployed and attempting to make a living from her writing. She expects to die under suspicious circumstances at age 40. Her work is known for being markedly macabre, morose, morbid, melancholy, moody, monstrous, malignant and a whole other host of words beginning with M. In her spare time, you can find her summoning spirits on a Ouija board, casting spells on those who have slighted her and attempting to see her reflection in mirrors.