I can feel the wool sleeves of my uniform creep up

The itchy strands rubbing against my wrists

While my blouse stretches taut across the ligaments of my throat.

I struggle to refocus my blurred gaze

But the speaker melds into the stage behind him

The microphone covering his face.

My hands are empty and ungainly

Legs creaking on the grains of the wooden pew.

So indistinct that they call me ghost

Like I’m not around to hear them

Appearing and disappearing

Even I can’t tell if I’m there or not.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s