The Ghost Of Valentine’s Past

The past of Cupid shows me the errors of my heart

The Ghost of Valentine’s Past

It was the night before Valentine’s Day
when I heard the knocking —
not at my door,
but in my memory.

Chains dragging.
Perfume fading.
A whisper wrapped in red.

“I am the Ghost
of Valentine’s Past.”

And there you stood —
not as you are,
but as you were.

February 2022 flickered first.
A Jeep bent out of shape
on the road to her house.
You swore it was stolen.
The ghost tilted its head —
and showed me the lie
hanging from your mouth
like exhaust in cold air.

“Look closer,” it said.

And I saw myself —
not stupid,
just hopeful.
Not blind,
just loving too hard.

The scene shifted.
2023.

Jail bars instead of candlelight.
Collect calls instead of roses.
I watched myself defend you
to people who already knew
better.

“Why did you stay?”
the ghost asked.

Because love feels louder
than logic
when you’re starving for it.

Then 2024 —
I saw myself in the mirror.
Dressed up.
Waiting.
Phone silent.

You at the Hideaway
feeding slot machines
while I gambled on you
for free.

The ghost didn’t mock me.
It only held up truth
like a mirror
I could no longer avoid.

2025 —
Arguing in borrowed space.
Power cut off.
Voices raised.
Dignity lowered.

And 2026 —
A cell door closing
on the same mistakes.
The same pattern.
The same man.

“But why show me this?”
I asked the spirit.

It stepped closer,
its voice no longer cold.

“Because the past
isn’t meant to haunt you.
It’s meant to free you.”

The chains weren’t yours.
They were mine.
Forged from excuses.
Linked with denial.
Locked with hope.

The ghost began to fade,
leaving only one sentence
in the dark:

“Love should not feel like
surviving February.”

I woke before dawn.
No roses.
No apologies.
No illusions.

Just quiet.

And for the first time,
Valentine’s Day
didn’t feel cursed.

It felt clear.