How to kill a specter

You will love again, I said to myself moments before I left. You will jump as you had once before, you will not rot but rest. My bed was that of a nest, articulated so spectacularly I once thought. So meticulous and unique, I had grown quite comfortable, some say too comfortable. Plastered along my walls were memories caught in the hands of a flash, all of which were stuck up with masking tape, weak enough to not rip the plaster, yet the pins I had punched into the walls remain, creating small splits, I preferred to call them constellations. Maybe if I wed them with universal beings they would hold more than just anger and resentment, maybe I would hold more than just wit without logic. Paper planes were held up by string, and books by a bookshelf that didn’t fit my corner. Incense smeared along my window sill, resembling a moth who had such an unfortunate passing, maybe it was just a moth. I began to believe that if I filled the walls, and covered the holes with more decor, the pale visage looking down upon me would not be seen. She was beautiful, the specter. She held me throughout my sleep, haunting the corners of my vision and enlisting herself within my judgement. She appears within the waves spoken about her, every word a new conscience, every sentence a new limb. I have been scared to let her go, for she gave me the fire to spark my new life. If I am to rid of this fire what am I to be left with? Ashes? For what will I do with ashes, what does one do with burnt furniture and distant smoke hogging the open space. Elongating my life she had done, not curate one of new beginnings, though do I want to be rid of all that is my past? Shall I demolish that of all I have been taught, all that I have been requested to embark on today. Maybe us humans have never let go, for we will always hold the blood of our ancestors, the rage of our mothers. To death do us part we swear to ourselves once we are conceived. I wasn’t born with a clasp on an emerald necklace, but rather a legacy of trauma. Once we pass, our soul that is individual may be released, but is the soul not hindered by our present. How do I get rid of the smoke in my hair. The colour that once represented serenity and calm now covered me in mold, moist, a texture you could not scrub off. It was like pealing my skin from tissue, belittling my divinity with these restraints. Maybe it is as simple as living with ones past, maybe that is all it is. For maybe all it is is growing our wings so strong they can lift both oneself and our timeworn tales. For the specter was nothing more than myself, and I am nothing without my past.