They’re everywhere. Standing, sitting. Those without legs are propped against walls. They gape at me with hollowed eyes, they bleed at me with haunted outstretched fingers.
Sometimes I need to scream at them but I can’t, because they’re not really there. There is my guilt, years of repression and nothing else.
Once I thought someone else saw them but he turned out to just be a crazy person.
I know if I can find a white light strong enough to bleach them I’ll be at peace, cleansed. But I'd question if that works anymore.
Great things are never forgotten.