In the lacquered hush of a screen that remembers every sin,
another revenant blooms from the marrow of the feed,
a second ghost shaved clean by the same lunar scalpel,
yet colder, crueler, more absolute in its pallor,
as though the first was merely rehearsal
and this one is the opening night of the end.
Behold: the skull has been polished to the sheen of a glacier’s tear,
no stubble, no shadow, no mercy of follicle,
only the vast tundra of a head
where even the wind would lose its way.
The skin is not white;
it is the color of a scream
trapped inside a pearl
for ten thousand years.
The eyes—
O God, the eyes have evolved beyond forgiveness—
now twin obsidian mirrors
in which you can see your own childhood
being unmade,
pupils dilated to the diameter of black holes
that have already swallowed tomorrow.
They do not reflect light;
they devour it,
chew it slowly,
spit out the bones of photons
as frost across your fingertips.
But the mouth—
the mouth has ascended into blasphemy incarnate—
a horizontal vulva carved from the heart of a dying star,
lips lacquered in the arterial blood of seraphim
who lost a bet with Lucifer
and paid with their wings.
The red is wetter now,
almost dripping,
as though it has just finished feeding
on the last warm thing left in the universe.
When it smiles—
and it will smile,
at exactly 02:41 PM WAT—
you will hear the wet click
of something inside your ribcage
signing a contract
it never agreed to read.
The neck rises like the stem of a poisoned lily,
veins visible beneath the translucent skin
like blue rivers frozen mid-collapse.
A single silver chain circles the throat—
not jewelry,
but the rosary of a saint
who was strangled with it
in 1692
and has been looking for a new neck
ever since.
The garment has mutated:
no longer mere cloth,
but a straitjacket woven from the wedding dresses
of every bride who jumped
from every cliff
in every country
where the sea is hungry.
Each diamond stitch is a mouth
whispering the coordinates
of your eventual drowning.
The collar is starched with the tears
of mothers who buried their children
face-down
so the devil wouldn’t know
which way they were looking.
This second apparition stands
in the exact same corner
of the exact same wall,
yet the wall has grown teeth.
The cracks have widened into canyons
where tiny versions of you
are already falling,
mouths open in silent O’s
that will never reach the bottom.
Somewhere in the plaster,
a clock made of bone
ticks backward
toward the moment
you first decided
to keep scrolling.
And now the differences—
the exquisite, excruciating differences—
between the first ghost and this one:
where the first had a tear track of mercury,
this one has a laugh line
carved so deep
it reaches the other side of the face
and comes out smiling.
Where the first merely stared,
this one tilts its head
by precisely 3.7 degrees—
the exact angle
at which a neck snaps
in slow motion.
Its left hand—
previously unseen—
now rises into frame,
fingers elongated into alabaster needles,
nails painted the same obscene red
as the mouth,
each one dripping
a single bead
of what might be blood
or might be lipstick
or might be the last drop of color
left in your future.
The hand gestures—
not a wave,
not a benediction,
but the slow, deliberate motion
of a surgeon
selecting which part of your soul
to remove first.
Listen:
at 02:42 PM WAT,
the air conditioning in your room
will fail
for exactly seven seconds.
In that pocket of silence
you will hear the second ghost
whisper your childhood nickname
in a voice made of razor blades
soaked in honey.
You will not remember
giving anyone that name,
yet your knees will buckle
as though someone has just
remembered it for you.
This is no longer a photograph.
This is a virus
written in the language of mirrors.
This is the moment
the algorithm
learned how to pray
and chose hunger
as its only god.
Zoom in—
if you dare—
on the reflection
in the ghost’s left eye.
You will see yourself
at age seven,
standing in your grandmother’s kitchen,
holding a Polaroid
of a woman
with no hair
and red, red lips
who looks exactly like
the you
you are becoming
right now.
The circle is complete.
The circle was always complete.
The circle has teeth
and it is chewing
the last warm place
behind your eyes.
By 02:45 PM WAT
your phone will be colder
than any object
has a right to be.
By 02:46
your reflection
in every dark window
will shave its head
without your permission.
By 02:47
you will open your makeup drawer
and find a lipstick
you have never bought
in a shade called
“Absolute Zero Hemorrhage.”
And when you apply it—
because you will apply it—
the second ghost
will finally blink.
That blink
will last
exactly one thousand years.
When it opens its eyes again,
it will be standing
behind you
in the mirror
wearing your face
but improved:
bald,
white,
red-mouthed,
and smiling
with all your teeth
plus seven more
that never belonged to you.
This is the second.
There is no third.
There never was a first.
There is only the feeding
and the fed
and the moment
the screen
learns how to
bleed
upward.
another revenant blooms from the marrow of the feed,
a second ghost shaved clean by the same lunar scalpel,
yet colder, crueler, more absolute in its pallor,
as though the first was merely rehearsal
and this one is the opening night of the end.
Behold: the skull has been polished to the sheen of a glacier’s tear,
no stubble, no shadow, no mercy of follicle,
only the vast tundra of a head
where even the wind would lose its way.
The skin is not white;
it is the color of a scream
trapped inside a pearl
for ten thousand years.
The eyes—
O God, the eyes have evolved beyond forgiveness—
now twin obsidian mirrors
in which you can see your own childhood
being unmade,
pupils dilated to the diameter of black holes
that have already swallowed tomorrow.
They do not reflect light;
they devour it,
chew it slowly,
spit out the bones of photons
as frost across your fingertips.
But the mouth—
the mouth has ascended into blasphemy incarnate—
a horizontal vulva carved from the heart of a dying star,
lips lacquered in the arterial blood of seraphim
who lost a bet with Lucifer
and paid with their wings.
The red is wetter now,
almost dripping,
as though it has just finished feeding
on the last warm thing left in the universe.
When it smiles—
and it will smile,
at exactly 02:41 PM WAT—
you will hear the wet click
of something inside your ribcage
signing a contract
it never agreed to read.
The neck rises like the stem of a poisoned lily,
veins visible beneath the translucent skin
like blue rivers frozen mid-collapse.
A single silver chain circles the throat—
not jewelry,
but the rosary of a saint
who was strangled with it
in 1692
and has been looking for a new neck
ever since.
The garment has mutated:
no longer mere cloth,
but a straitjacket woven from the wedding dresses
of every bride who jumped
from every cliff
in every country
where the sea is hungry.
Each diamond stitch is a mouth
whispering the coordinates
of your eventual drowning.
The collar is starched with the tears
of mothers who buried their children
face-down
so the devil wouldn’t know
which way they were looking.
This second apparition stands
in the exact same corner
of the exact same wall,
yet the wall has grown teeth.
The cracks have widened into canyons
where tiny versions of you
are already falling,
mouths open in silent O’s
that will never reach the bottom.
Somewhere in the plaster,
a clock made of bone
ticks backward
toward the moment
you first decided
to keep scrolling.
And now the differences—
the exquisite, excruciating differences—
between the first ghost and this one:
where the first had a tear track of mercury,
this one has a laugh line
carved so deep
it reaches the other side of the face
and comes out smiling.
Where the first merely stared,
this one tilts its head
by precisely 3.7 degrees—
the exact angle
at which a neck snaps
in slow motion.
Its left hand—
previously unseen—
now rises into frame,
fingers elongated into alabaster needles,
nails painted the same obscene red
as the mouth,
each one dripping
a single bead
of what might be blood
or might be lipstick
or might be the last drop of color
left in your future.
The hand gestures—
not a wave,
not a benediction,
but the slow, deliberate motion
of a surgeon
selecting which part of your soul
to remove first.
Listen:
at 02:42 PM WAT,
the air conditioning in your room
will fail
for exactly seven seconds.
In that pocket of silence
you will hear the second ghost
whisper your childhood nickname
in a voice made of razor blades
soaked in honey.
You will not remember
giving anyone that name,
yet your knees will buckle
as though someone has just
remembered it for you.
This is no longer a photograph.
This is a virus
written in the language of mirrors.
This is the moment
the algorithm
learned how to pray
and chose hunger
as its only god.
Zoom in—
if you dare—
on the reflection
in the ghost’s left eye.
You will see yourself
at age seven,
standing in your grandmother’s kitchen,
holding a Polaroid
of a woman
with no hair
and red, red lips
who looks exactly like
the you
you are becoming
right now.
The circle is complete.
The circle was always complete.
The circle has teeth
and it is chewing
the last warm place
behind your eyes.
By 02:45 PM WAT
your phone will be colder
than any object
has a right to be.
By 02:46
your reflection
in every dark window
will shave its head
without your permission.
By 02:47
you will open your makeup drawer
and find a lipstick
you have never bought
in a shade called
“Absolute Zero Hemorrhage.”
And when you apply it—
because you will apply it—
the second ghost
will finally blink.
That blink
will last
exactly one thousand years.
When it opens its eyes again,
it will be standing
behind you
in the mirror
wearing your face
but improved:
bald,
white,
red-mouthed,
and smiling
with all your teeth
plus seven more
that never belonged to you.
This is the second.
There is no third.
There never was a first.
There is only the feeding
and the fed
and the moment
the screen
learns how to
bleed
upward.
The Sunday Circle