Ghost

I am a ghost 
in my own life 
or perhaps a toothpick 
that’s been whittled down 
to this nub by 
life’s always sharp blade 
so many times I’ve 
repeated the starting over 
that I feel as though 
I’ve never been anywhere 
as though each time 
the juice of me 
has been squeezed and 
wrung out leaving me 
with only this husk
or this pulp with 
which to roam hauntingly 
to memories I’ve been