Lost El Paso Paranormal

They told me the world was a map,
But they gave me the wrong legends to read it.
I was a radio tuned to the static between stations,
A frequency that rattled the china and made the dogs bark,
So I learned the art of the disappearing act.
 

I took the parts of me that were "too much"—
The rocking, the humming, the way the light felt like needles—
And I buried them in the backyard of my own mind.
I put a stone over the grave of my own voice,
And I became a ghost before I ever learned how to live.
 

I spent decades chasing what was already inside me.
I walked through crumbling hallways and silent graveyards,
Holding a recorder to the dark, begging for a whisper,
A sign, a "yes," a "we are here."
I felt a kinship with the invisible,
Because I was a phantom in my own skin.
 

I thought I was looking for the dead,
But I was really looking for a way to be seen.
I was haunted by a presence I couldn't name—
A cold spot in the center of my chest,
A shadow that followed me into every room,
Mimicking my gait but never quite catching the rhythm.

I’ve stood in the dark and asked, "Is anyone there?"
A thousand times, I waited for the knock.
But the epiphany didn't come from a spirit box or a thermal scan.
It came when I turned the lens inward and finally saw:
The first ghost who ever haunted me... was me.
 

It was the girl I buried to stay safe.
The autistic child who didn't fit the mold,
So she broke herself into pieces to fit the cracks.
I wasn't "weird" or "broken"—
I was a living person trying to breathe through six feet of expectations.
 

I am done with the seance of "fitting in."
I am done asking for permission to occupy space.
I am reaching into that earth, past the sorrow and the silence,
And I am grabbing the hand of that child I left behind.
 

I am pulling her up.
I am brushing the dust off her sensory-seeking soul.
I am bringing her back to the light,
Not as a shadow, not as a whisper, but as a revelation.
 

I used to think the paranormal was the bridge between worlds,
But the real magic is the bridge back to the self.
I am resurrecting.
I am breathing.
I am finally, beautifully, hauntingly... alive.

 

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The Sun City doesn't sleep alone;
It shares its bed with dust and bone.
Where the Franklin Mountains cut the sky,
The ancient whispers never die.
 

In the halls of the De Soto, the floorboards hum,
With the rhythm of a heart that refuses to be numb.
A lady in lace, a shadow in the hall—
I love the way they linger, answering the call
Of a city built on salt and grit,
Where the candle of the past is forever lit.
 

I walk the paths of Concordia at night,
Where the marble angels catch the pale moonlight.
There is no fear in the spirit's cold breath,
Just a deep, dusty romance with life after death.
To love El Paso is to love the unseen—
The space in the air where the "Old West" has been.
 

"The wind through the creosote isn't just air; it's a conversation with someone who is still standing there."
 

From the Plaza's ghosts to the Monteleone’s door,
I’ll take the spirits and I’ll ask for more.
For in this borderland, thin as a veil,
Every ghost has a tequila-soaked tale.
So here’s to the phantoms of the 915—
Their most beautiful souls are still alive.

'LIFT YOUR GLASS, toast to the spirits, and also, to the invisible parts of us that are hidden, and need to see the light'