A ghost in the closet

It’s been a year in quarantine,
A dry monotony.
That is, until I started hearing
Things I couldn’t see.

A ghost lives in my closet,
And whispers in the dark
Of every mundane memory
Where failure’s left its mark.

Another seethes and scuttles,
Drifting through my head,
Discarding inspirations
Until there’s nothing left.

I thought of them as spirits
‘Cause what else could they be?
That is, until I listened.
Now I fear they might be me.

For a ghost lives in my closet,
And another in my head,
But the voice is mine, and mine alone.

And that is what I dread.