The Haunted Mind

The Haunted Mind

The mind is haunted.

It whispers in corners,

flickers in the dark,

shadows that no one else can see.

Thoughts creep along the edges,

curling around memory,

twisting it until unrecognizable.

I walk through it,

feel it pressing against my skull,

its weight constant,

a pulse that never stops,

and I hear the echoes

of things I tried to forget,

of voices I cannot name.

It carries the past,

folded into every corner,

every quiet moment.

The mistakes, the losses,

the faces of those who are gone,

and it shows them to me

when I least expect it,

when I am alone,

when the world is still.

The haunted mind is not gentle.

It does not forgive.

It circles like a predator,

lingering where it knows I will see,

reminding me of everything

I cannot undo,

everything I cannot escape.

It whispers at night,

slips into dreams,

turns sleep into a shifting maze.

Even when I wake,

its shadows linger,

pressing against edges of thought,

waiting for the moment

I let my guard down.

And yet, in the darkest corners,

there is a strange awareness.

It is not only fear,

not only pain.

It is memory alive,

alive in every shadow,

every silence,

every pause.

I move through it carefully,

hands out, listening.

The haunted mind does not vanish.

It cannot be chased away.

It bends, it twists,

it waits.

And I carry it,

fragile and fierce,

like something too old

to leave behind,

like something I need to understand

if I am ever to be whole.