I Was Dead the First Time
They buried me crooked the first time.
Head tilted west, no light.
I remember,
because I didn’t stay gone.
Now I walk again
same skin, new pulse,
But the same ghosts are crawling under my fingernails.
Ezra.
That's what they call me this time.
The boy who doesn't blink.
A boy who mutters riddles.
A boy who draws coffins better than faces.
My mother avoids my eyes.
She says they’re too old for a child.
She’s right.
They’ve watched fire from behind closed doors.
They’ve seen betrayal in familiar hands.
They’ve watched my blood run cold
twice.
I told her the neighbor’s son would drown.
She slapped me for wishing death.
But two weeks later,
They pulled his body out of the lake,
His lungs bloated with silence.
They don’t believe me.
They call me mad.
Sick.
Possessed.
But I am not the devil.
I am what happens when vengeance gets a second chance.
You see,
the ones who ended me before
They live in this world again.
Different names.
Different sins.
But I remember them.
My bones hum when they walk by.
My skin itches with unfinished justice.
And this time…
I didn’t come back to be gentle.
So yes, I talk to shadows.
Yes, I keep a ledger of names in a book bound with thread and murmurs.
Yes, I cringe when people lie, because lies sound louder when you've heard truth from the dead.
They say I’m a psychopath.
But I only hurt the ones who deserve it.
Only curse those who throw knives behind smiles.
Only bury those who buried me first.
Call me dark.
Call me twisted.
But don’t call me wrong.
Because justice doesn’t always wear a crown.
Sometimes it comes dressed like a child,
with tired eyes and a blood-soaked past.
And this time,
I’m not here to die.
I’m here to finish what they started.
One scream at a time.
