Dead Girls Never Ghost You
I met her at a graveyard rave—
lace corset, crooked grin, eyes like unpaid debt.
Said she only dates the living ironically,
and I was just sober enough to qualify.
Her tongue was colder than my last girlfriend’s soul
and twice as honest.
We made out behind a mausoleum,
carved our names in the headstone.
She said, “I like you ’cause you already look half-dead.”
I said, “I’ve been practicing.”
And when she bit my neck,
I came slightly and died slightly, not sure of the order.
Dead girls never ghost you—they haunt proper.
They moan at night, but it’s usually your name.
And when they say “forever,”
they actually fucking mean it.
Took her home, but she preferred coffins—
slept curled in my bathtub instead.
She left cryptic poems in my fridge
and stole all my warmest hoodies.
My cat loves her, which is weird,
’cause he hates everything that isn’t tuna or Satan.
My ex texted “U up?” and I showed my ghost—
she deleted her own number in fear.
We don’t argue—she just flickers the lights
’til I apologize.
And honestly, I like that better
than screaming matches with the living.
She’ll never age, never cheat,
never ask me to go to brunch.
Just whispers filth in Latin
and drips ectoplasm when she’s horny.
Love’s a grave thing,
but at least I finally found someone
who stays dead loyal.