The call went out — a plea to leave the kingdom of the living, to sign my name out of their social rites. But the words fell upon deaf ears, their laughter still echoing as if I were never there. I should have known — I was already crowned king of absence, my throne carved from silence, my crown woven from neglect. To be forgotten while breathing is a fate crueler than death, for the dead are at least remembered in whispers and wilted flowers. The living ghost gets none. They say they’re there — but in trying times, it’s just me. Perhaps I chose the wrong ones to bleed my truth to, or perhaps life simply gambled and I lost. Now the hardest truths begin to bloom — this grave I’ve dug in silence may be the only bed that ever truly holds me.