Unseen Wounds

Fighting with Ghosts

They came again last night—

those ghosts I thought I’d buried.

They wore the voices of my shame,

the eyes of those who left,

and the weight of every choice I wish I could undo.

I swung at them in the dark,

but my hands passed through air.

You can’t kill a shadow.

You can’t stab a memory.

And they know it.

They feed on exhaustion.

But then—

I felt it.

Not light at first… but presence.

“Peace, be still.”

It wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

The air shifted,

and the floor that had been crumbling beneath me

suddenly felt like rock. (Psalm 18:2)

The ghosts hissed,

but they couldn’t get closer.

Because He stepped between us.

“This one is Mine.” (Isaiah 43:1)

Not a sword, not a fist—

just truth that broke chains I didn’t know were still around me.

And I realized…

I wasn’t meant to fight them alone.

The battle was never mine to win. (Exodus 14:14)

It was His.

It always was.

The ghosts still try sometimes.

But now, when they come,

I don’t swing in the dark.

I speak His name into the shadows,

and they remember

what I now know:

They are trespassing

on holy ground.