The half-deflated balloons from a
birthday last month saunter down the hall

Tinfoil ghosts halfheartedly hover at eye level,
listless at best

I kept them to give the home a sense of whimsy,
like quiet guests that find themselves demure

as they are haunted by my cats,
hilariously chasing the fraying ribbon dragging under them.

It is fun to pretend, and enjoy the whimsy
but if I were truly honest with you

There really isn’t any more to the show than
almost-two-month-old-wrinkled-tin-foil-balloons.

No double meaning schemes, no Chekhov’s gun
romantically veiled within the melancholia of it all

The ghosts are actually still around because
it has been too hard to get up from the

Unrelenting clutches of the couch and I can’t
do anything but stare

At the evidence of my mental illness
hovering past whenever the heater vents kick on

Because catching and ripping them up
one by one

Feels lightyears out of reach and these stupid symbols of joy
remind me how the earth is rapidly running out of helium

And I am simply in no place to take
accountability for being part of that problem too  

So, here I am,
surrounded by silver and gold wrinkled stars

Contemplating how much energy it will take
to open the fridge and eat something for the first time today

Thinking that maybe I ought to finish out the charade
and finally admit that the gun is just a gun.