I’m a rumour. I’m a whisper that escapes the mill. I’m the song they heard through the grapevine.
I’m the travelling salesman of the Gossip Inc. I carry my little suitcase of words that skip over one town to the next like a hushed secret about a second wife.
I’m the unknown neighbour. I make up lies to not get too close to the enemy, so they never know I am always holding a bomb in my jacket. The mysterious ticking noise of a loner’s mind.
I’m a story. An incomplete tale told in notes, like allegories the villagers repeat, when they have nothing better to pass their time.
I’m the new kid in class. The witch in that part of town. The spinster in her shanty, with the thick smoke always bellowing out.
I’m the ghost of Christmas past that you never met.
Haven’t you heard?