How does it feel to still be able to breathe?

This place is already a haunted house and we are ghosts just lurking in the shadows. What's left of this world are killers, murderers, and thieves who enjoy living while we are licking our traumas. I would believe if somebody tells me that the hell is now empty and heaven has closed its gates. 

We are crowded with charlatan exorcists trying to communicate with the dead with their ouija boards and pretentious third eyes. They do not even see us nor hear. Some do but they twist our words into horrors and they say we are okay here on the other side. We are happy, they claim, even if we have been carrying our griefs for 24/7. Some of us are even covered in blood coming out from stab and gun wounds. How does it feel to have clean hands? Why are ours engulfed with dirt from the cemetery where they buried us alive? What soap do they use to wash and sleep at night unsullied? 

I want to sleep too. 

Among us, there are also ghosts that are unconscious of their state. They eat whenever they want to, they shop in the malls, they lie in their comfortable homes with no holes. But they do not know that they are already killed. They deny the danger that they live because they do not see injuries. How wretched must it feel if they learn that they were choked in the neck by selfish and unsatisfied hands that they salute to? Will they be finally mad after that? 

I want them to wake up now. 

But for the people who are still here, how do you do it? How do you unsee the apparitions with hollow space instead of eyes begging on the streets? How do you ignore kids' spirits knocking agitatedly on your closed door when you opened them for Halloween before? How do you gulp the bile of broken promises that you never meant in the first place? How do you lie in front of the millions of ghosts that once were humans too? 

I want to know, how does it feel to still be able to breathe? 

Why are we dead when they are the ghouls who take everything we have? Why can they step on our graves but we can't pull them with us? Why are their plants growing and ours just wither immediately? 

Why are they laughing and making a fool out of our crops? 

I want to whisper on their pitiless ears that have probably burned already. I want to curse them repeatedly until it becomes true. I want them to hear our misery like a eulogy that they did not spare us to have. I want the hair on every inch of their body to rise. I want them to have goosebumps from my remorseful, bleeding heart. 

I want that, but what can a ghost do? 

I can cry and cry so loud until I'm finally at their funerals.