I’m friends with this ghost—
I love her the most.
V of Cups Spell
Disappointed, disjointed,
on this morning of mourning,
I'm aborning my warning.
I've been anointed
in a rise-up ritual for the exploited.
Just get over it.
Flashbacks and panic attacks
associate with disassociation—
setting fire to my mire like a cremation.
Maybe I could move on
if I had a brain ablation,
but the static's so thick
I can't change the station.
Drinking and drugging.
Anything but hugging.
Starving and bingeing.
My mind’s unhinging.
This pessimism colors all—tingeing.
I'm friends with this ghost—
I love her the most.
She's all I've lost—
And at what a cost!
Sure, I'll be moaning and groaning
about the incessant droning—
the incestuous toneing—
missing and not missing
the family I’m disowning.
But drowning in frowning
with her beats living and forgiving—
unforgiving and alone.
Without bones.
With no home.
In an endless roam.
Without her, I’m a broken record—
stuck on fucked—
a losing lottery winner with no luck.
Without her, I’m no answer on the telephone—
but she always picks up—
no matter my tone.
So, I hold on tightly,
and if she doesn't,
I'll act impolitely—
hanging around,
banging the ground—
until the tears I’m looking for are found.
Dripping and draining,
these eyes will be paining
over all that's chaining—
over all I'm not gaining.
Blood and giggles.
Innocence wiggles.
Secrets and shushes.
Weirdos force hushes.
Goodnight, Moon,
with all your terrible phases,
with your hideous curtains
and ugly bunny faces.
Show me the sun
and all it erases—
bleaching out the black and gray
making sure they don’t stay.
But then again, this pain feels okay.
Cherry broken.
Tulip busted.
Rotten roses kiss my lips.
Skinny, harsh fingers
that linger upon my hips.
Death smells.
Regret dwells.
I’m unwell.
Isn’t this swell?
Eight is great!
And so are all the others.
Should I call my mother?
Kiss my father?
Did I forget to tell?
Happy birthday to me.
Welcome to Hell.
Happy birthday to us, for eternity.
I love you, forever,
I mean it, sincerely.
You’re the best friend I never had.
You kept me safe from all the bad:
World's Greatest Mom.
Universe's Bestest Dad.
With you I’m okay only being sad.
You're always there, no matter what,
hanging out, stuck in my gut.
We'll blow out these trick candles
with all our lungs handle
and cry with the sky
about our scandal.
Over and over
until the next sleepover.
We'll sit here together until we run dry,
and have our last cry.
Goodbye, Crybaby, let's die.
We pinky promise to always remember—
you live inside me—
forever.
From January until December.
But from now on, we live in splendor.
Keywords & Card Content
KEYWORDS: SORROW, DESPAIR, LOSS
IMAGE
A ghost and Eight share a table together. An umbrella with a bone handle shelters them, but the rain falls only beneath it. On Eight’s side, the sun glows quietly. On the the ghost’s side, clouds hover and gather. Their hands lift between them, forming the sign for “I love you.” Is it devotion—or a goodbye said gently?
DIVINATORY MEANING
Fives symbolize change and communication. Something has shifted. Something significant has been lost. The transition feels heavy—like every raincloud on earth gathered just to empty itself over you.
The grief is thick. Personal. Familiar. And yet—the stun is still there. It does not argue with the storm. It does not force the clouds apart. It simply exists beyond them. Where rain and light meet, something forms. Not immediately. Not because you demand it. But because that is what happens when darkness and brightness share the same sky. Even if you can’t see it yet, the possibility of a rainbow remains.
You may want to keep holding onto what you will never have again. The yearning feels sacred—protective. As if letting go would eras the meaning of what was lost. But clinging will not bring it back. Sometimes it feels easier to stay under the umbrella—to sit with sorrow like an old friend. Grief can feel like loyalty—like proof it mattered. Like love. But you cannot build what’s next if you are still having coffee with someone who isn’t here anymore. The storm is real.
But so is the sun. And, you can feel it again if you fold the umbrella and put it away.
EIGHT’S INSIGHT
Have one last good cry if you need it. You are allowed to mourn what was taken, what was broken, what was lost without your permission. It was not okay. And still—holding onto it forever will not undo it.
Sometimes grief becomes a guardian. It keeps you company. It helps you survive. It protects the part of you that feels too small to endure what happened. But there comes a moment when survival must become living.
To understand what the loss meant, you have to be willing to look at it differently, to reframe it. To find that language for it—to know the words of your own story. This goodbye isn’t betrayal. You can thank your ghost for where she carried you. You can honor what she helped you endure. Then let her move from across the table into your memory.
She can be part of you. She does not have to define you.