I am haunted by my young history,
a spectral thing that follows me
until it finds my darker centre,
disappears down a swirling black hole
for a while, for a moment,

never forever.

At night, I see the ghosts:
swirling, dancing spirits;
a small spark, a resounding bang;
the fall, the fall, the fall.
It bounces off my walls
until the void opens up, 
breathes, swallows.

It repeats, I am hollow.

And around me the ship creaks – 
a funny thing – 
bordering on so much death,
a hair's breadth from the threat,
and yet,
I am more afraid of me.

An illusion hovers at my door,
a white memory fragment,
and I realise I can sum up my heart. Imagine – 
white ice fear surrounded by oblivion.
I sit up in bed; dark swirls around my head.
Rubbing my eyes, I squint at my ghosts.

Is that...?

"Atara, what are you–"

The doorway blinks away the light,
reveals nothing but the dark of night.
I am dreaming, of course,
half-in, half-out of reality.

My black-hole heart closes up,
the dark world yawns,
and I fall.