bad blood

The past week I have been followed by a ghost. I have tried to shake him, but he hides just beyond every smile, and that little poison, leaving me a little bent. I am trying to keep my elbows glued to the frames of the photo, anything to keep it all out.

I know all exultant things are forged in darkness—the little universes slipping between our fingertips. but, it is increasingly consuming me, and I don't know why. I am happier than I should have ever been. and so does it all follow in equilibrium: the happier I—

—I am doomed to a violence. Don't give up on me, please.