Ghosts In The Glass [Wraith]
The bottle sighs when I twist the wire, that soft tiny hiss like a secret that wants out, that wants blood, that wants a witness for all the wreckage I carried through this year on my frayed, crooked back,
Foil crumples in my fingers, a little metallic skin, and every wrinkle in it mirrors the cracks in my knuckles and the phone screen I slammed on the counter the night I watched the last good thing I had go off track,
The cork jumps loose with a pop that sounds halfway between laughter and gunfire, the room flinches, then cheers, while my ribs tighten like they know which side of that sound they believe,
Golden fizz surges up the neck of the bottle in a rush like every bad decision charging at the exit, stampeding for one last encore before they finally take their leave.
The flute in my hand feels too fragile for fingers like mine that have slammed doors, thrown plates, typed essays at three in the morning to people who never deserved that level of truth,
I tilt and pour and watch the pale bubbles rise in urgent strings, each one a tiny oxygen balloon trying to escape the mess, each one flickering with flashes of my own stupid youth,
They swarm and cling and climb toward the rim in nervous little armies, turning the glass into a snow globe of bad choices dressed up as celebration and charm,
And the first one that bursts right under my nose pops open a memory from March, that night I said words I knew were poison, watched their shoulders fold like broken wings, still didn’t sound the alarm.
Every bubble carries a scene as it floats, like the drink decided to play movie projectionist on my regrets while the world counts down behind my spine,
The one over there shows the night I blew rent money on impulse, bright lights and spinning reels, thinking luck might pity me, steady my line,
Another one shimmers with that messy hookup I swore would stay casual, bodies tangled on a stranger’s couch while reruns flickered on mute,
It bursts and leaves only the echo of me scrolling their messages months later, reading my own flirtations like evidence from a crime, knowing I was the root.
In the corner, the television glows with some synthetic party where everyone’s teeth seem machine-polished and their futures pre-approved,
Confetti cannons bloom across the screen in rehearsed explosions while some host in sequins promises that everything broken can be smoothed,
But in the reflection on my glass, I see myself instead, slightly older than the last time I tried to lie about feeling fine,
Eyes ringed in insomnia, cheeks flushed with holiday sugar and quiet shame, watching fizz rise like a time-lapse of my decline.
I sip and the bite hits my tongue, bright and sharp, the taste somewhere between promise and threat, between sugar and stinging pain,
The bubbles rush in, a swarm of tiny meteors exploding across my mouth, lighting up every nerve that thought it could retire this year from carrying strain,
Each swallow kicks another reel into motion on the inside of my skull, where the projector never runs out of film, just patience and light,
There is the day I ghosted a friend mid-spiral, the text chain cut off mid-cry, my silence weighing heavier than any fight.
One bubble glows darker than the rest as it rises, lazy and thick, swirling smoke-colored in the pale gold sea,
Inside it I see that morning in late spring where I stared at the ceiling so long the paint turned into cracks on a map, every route leading away from me,
Phone on my chest, unanswered messages piling up like unpaid bills, cramps in my jaw from clenching away the need to call anyone at all,
I watched the clock crawl and told myself that if I just stayed still enough, nobody could ask me to stand, nobody could watch me fall.
I swirl the glass and the whole year spins with it, twelve months condensed into a dizzy spiral of fizz and ghost-light swirling in one trembling hand,
At the edge of hearing, the crowd in the room counts down, voices braided together, ten, nine, eight, like some clumsy ritual they think will make the next year obey their command,
My own brain counts something else entirely, not numbers but names, dates, faces, every person I let down or used or let walk away because I was too proud or scared to bend,
Mistakes line up like soldiers on a cracked parade ground, saluting me with empty eyes, promising nothing except that the next time I will probably pretend I learned, then repeat again.
My breath fogs the upper rim of the glass, a little cloud pressed against clear walls, a ghost trying to escape the party through that small ring of air,
For a moment the bubbles look like souls rising from a tiny bottle-shaped graveyard, each one sprinting as fast as it can toward oxygen and the chance to prove it still cares,
I imagine if I leaned close enough, I would hear them whisper their grievances in tiny high voices, telling me where I left them, telling me the exact moment I walked away,
From the job I half-assed into oblivion, from the friend whose messages went from paragraphs to one-liners to none, from the lover I pushed so hard away they learned to pray.
In the corner of the couch, someone laughs too loud, the kind of cackle that only shows up when people drink to forget and remember at the same time,
They slosh their drink onto the carpet and swear the stain looks like the shape of last February, when their own life fell apart in slow motion crime,
We trade stories about disasters like kids trading cards, comparing burns and scars like collections, pretending this is therapy and not just gossip with extra sugar and foam,
It is easier to laugh about nearly dying from your own stupidity when the room hums with loud music and cheap lights and there is nowhere else to call home.
My glass catches the reflection of the clock on the wall, bright digital red cutting through all the glitter, an angry little rectangle shouting truth,
It flashes the last minute of the year like a dare, every second a tiny judge counting down the gap between who I wanted to be and who I actually became in this bruised excuse for youth,
The bubbles have slowed, fewer now, rising with less fury, as if even they are tired of climbing through this golden mess I poured,
The last few drift up lazy and crooked, carrying the heaviest sins, the ones that do not fit into jokes, the ones too dense to be ignored.
Here is the night I screamed I wanted to vanish, voice shredded, throat raw, my reflection shouting back from a dark window I pretended not to see,
Here is the moment I threw a fragile truth at someone who loved me and watched their shoulders fold, watched them pull their heart out of my reach and place it somewhere safe, far from me,
Here is the afternoon I lied to myself with such conviction that even the mirror blinked first and looked away,
Here is the quiet Tuesday I saw someone reaching out in their own kind of drowning and scrolled past anyway.
The last bubble hits the surface right as the room roars one, the sound punching through my thoughts, dragging me back from my private horror reel,
People kiss, clink glasses, hug too hard, vow to get fit, get rich, get better, promising the air they will finally heal,
Phone flashes as messages flood in from people I barely spoke to all year, prebuilt greetings and glitter gifs screaming hope in animated loops that feel like lies,
I lift the glass because that is what you do at moments like this, routine stepping in where sincerity dies.
The champagne kisses my mouth again, colder now, flatter around the edges, still with that sting that reminds me I am not numb, not yet,
I let it sit on my tongue a second too long, a tiny punishment for every apology I thought about giving and never actually sent, every boundary I let get bent,
In my head, the bubbles keep rising long after the glass empties, carrying reels of the times I performed joy for others, feet aching, smile snapped tight in place,
All of it swirling into the same tight knot of guilt and yearning just under my ribs, the part of me that both wants to vanish and wants someone to notice I want to vanish and stand in my way in case.
Out the window, fireworks scribble nerves across the sky, bright and messy and gone too fast, just like every good impulse I had that I never quite turned into action this year,
The sounds echo through the glass, dull and distant, like applause for a show that already packed up, like cheers for a hero who never showed, never came near,
Inside, my chest carries its own little display, silent and explosive, each remembered failure a spark that either lights a new vow or burns another hole in whatever courage remains,
I stand there with the empty flute in my hand, fingers damp, throat tight, wondering if this new calendar page means anything or if the whole trick is that nothing changes and the bubbles always end in the same stains.
Someone nudges my shoulder, laughs, asks if I am making resolutions, their joke light as confetti, no idea the storm they just bumped into in my spine,
I smirk and say something about drinking more water and swearing less, easy lies that slide out smooth while my tongue still tastes like swallowed time,
Inside, a quieter voice whispers that maybe this year I will answer the phone when it rings with need, I will apologize before the wreckage turns permanent, I will stop saving my better self for some mythical perfect day,
The bubbles inside my head scoff and swirl, doubtful and jaded, but they do not entirely vanish, they hang there half-formed, silver ghosts in the glass, knowing I might still surprise myself, knowing I might still stay.