ghosts in my closet

Jul 03, 2025

They’re in there,
rattling the knob,
claws scratching at my sleep.

Stuffed in the corners for decades,
dust-cloaked, mold-mouthed,
segmented versions of me I forced into exile.
Hiding in the depths of my mind.
The outside? Polished.
But inside? They feast on my rot.

I can’t stop it now.
They’re smashing down the damn door,
spilling floodgates of terrifying memories.

A handsome skeleton in patent leather shoes and cummerbund
pushes out from the rest, sweeping me up in an embrace:
“Dance with me, my lady.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m every man you’ve ever loved… or hated.”
He twirls me dizzy.
“Stop! Enough!” I plead to be released.
“No. You dance for Daddy. Till death do us part.”

A pretty calavera in stilettos clicks forward like a funeral march: click-click-click “Give me cocaine and champagne and I’ll dance with you, Mr. Dreamy.”
I recognize her, my addict, waiting for her next hit.
I chain her back inside the cage.

A small voice sobs from the shadows, clutching a Snoopy blanket: “You left me here, all alone, in the dark…”
“I’m so sorry. Let me hold you.”
But I have abandoned my little girl many times before.

Bang—Bang—Bang. “Order!” Gravel gavel, echoing judgment in his black robe: “All of you should be ashamed!”

A voice hisses from the closet: “Shut up, I’m sick of you judging me. You make me want to puke.”
“Ugly, fat, no one will love you” intones the jury.

Another girl, thin as air, afraid to take up space,
wants to scream, but can’t even breathe her truth.
I move toward her, determined to rescue that lost girl inside me.

But a gust slams the door shut before I can reach.
She’s not ready to come out. Not yet.
Too much shame, her secret too dark to bear.

I yell, “Get out. Get the dirt out. All of you.
Let me sleep. Let me live in peace.”

Ghosts Need a Witness:

These closet demons: fractured selves I’ve mourned in silence, emerge at night from the shadows, reminding me they exist.

But here’s the magic: writing about the trauma and pain doesn’t just expose ghosts, it transforms them, helping to integrate our splintered selves, turning anxiety, depression and chaos into clarity, healing wounds we didn’t even know we could touch.

It’s taken me years of therapy, sobriety, and bleeding on the page to understand: When we name the nightmare, we stop living inside it — we become witnesses, not captives.

So tonight, I open the door and let the ink catch my fear.
Because shadows aren’t meant to stay hidden…they’re meant to be seen, named, and lit up.

Who lurks in your closet? Which ghost wants to come out and play or spill your secrets?

🖤 Love, spirals, and smoky altar ink-
Cyn, the Bougie Hippie