🏍️ Ghostrider

(Hell didn’t make him. Grief did.) 🔥

He rides where the dead don’t dare to walk—
a chest of leather,
a jaw full of smoke,
and a heart that ticks
like a funeral clock
with no second hand.

The road peels back
beneath his wheels
like skin from bone—
screaming,
soft,
inevitable.

He didn’t sell his soul.
He burned it for fuel.
Now the fire won’t stop.

He drags vengeance
by the hair through dusk,
a molten chain,
a grin of rust.
His eyes are headlamps:
hollow, lit—
and everything they land on
forgets what mercy is.

The innocent flinch.
The guilty pray.
But it’s too late,
he’s not after them.
He’s chasing the part of himself
he left to rot
in the ash of that day.

No heaven above.
No hell below.
Just endless roads
and truths he’ll never know:
A kiss unfinished.
A promise betrayed.
A face in the smoke
that won’t stay saved.

No body to mourn.
Just a soul in motion—
cursed by memory,
driven by devotion—
too stubborn
to be reborn.

They say he rides in purgatory.
What they don’t know is—
purgatory looks like Earth:

...old motels where the clocks don't tick,
lovers’ names scratched into rust,
roadsigns for exits that never come.
Highways that never lead home.

They say if you listen
when the asphalt cries,
you’ll hear his engine,
low and wild
like someone laughing
after death,
like hell
refusing
to forget.

Are you wondering what I’m up to now?
I lean out the side…
like I’m part of the wind,
like if I go fast enough,
I’ll outrun sin.
Or find her.
Or crash.
Or burn.
Or finally
miss the last return.

💀 If this ride haunted you a little, leave a comment or restack it into someone’s storm.

I write these stories for the ones still riding through the dark.

—Cass 🖤