In the beginning, I drowned
My former self in a baptismal pool.
I led her to the water like a lamb to the altar.
I pushed her in and held her under
As she scratched and clawed at my arms.
We stained holy water red.
She finally sunk to the bottom and
I rose from the water anew.
I couldn’t dry my skin of the damned water.
The guilt of her murder dripped from my hands to the floor,
Forming a puddle of regret at my feet.
Her ghost plagued my nights and haunted my days,
Flooding my mind with her sorrows
Following me with her whispered curses.
She always hovered in my reflection,
Her hands ready to drown me, too.
I learned to ignore her hovering form and her waiting hands.
I drowned out her whispers with singing
I built a boat in my flooded mind
I covered my mirrors.
She still haunted me,
My hands were still wet,
And the puddle still covered the floor.
But I learned to pass it all by.
Yesterday, I looked behind me and her ghost wasn’t there.
My day was spent alone,
My mind was empty,
And I only heard the breeze outside.
I uncovered my mirror and saw only me in the reflection.
She has finally stopped haunting me.
The water is finally clear.
My hands are finally dry.
Poetry, by Julia Abcug.
Julia Abcug is an undergraduate at the University of Richmond studying English, Creative Writing, and Classical Civilization. Her work has also been featured in the university’s literary magazine The Messenger.
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