Memory ghost

 

I laid those

thoughts

six foot deep

in a cemetery.

A single white lily

for company.

I let them die, peacefully.

But now they come

back to haunt me.

 

Same time, 3:30, as the moonlight

shimmers through the blinds.

Same routine every time,

heavy footsteps crash

upstairs,

banging on the walls,

flinging open doors,

before clattering down

the steps. Like an animal

on all fours. A cacophony

of noise.

 

The ghost walks

the same circuitous

route every night

as I'm trying

to dream. In dread,

in fright.

Her oppressive glare

freezes me,

her cold presence

threatening and chilling.

 

Quiver in my chest

as she screams

my name. Rage in every

extended syllable,

her rattling chains,

cold upon my skin

confine me. Ensnare me.

Trap me. To only

be able to stare in fear.

 

Pots and pans fly, clanging,

as the kitchen erupts, plates smashing,

glasses shattering, a storm in a teacup.

As the atmosphere begins to bubble

and comes to the boil,

the chill of ice-cold fingers

scratches down my spine

as her icy stare grazes me.

 

And those goosebumps

still crawl nightly like

insects upon my skin,

they still visit me and burrow in.

They still call,

and I still shiver instinctively.

Hiding under a duvet,

waiting for the sunlight

to break the mourning air

and let some peace settle in.

 

But over time I've found the ghost

less scary, it just repeatedly tries

to bring me down, but I'm not scared

of sheets billowing in the cold air,

or in the clang of chains,

my mind can conjure up

more terrifying things.

And the words she throws

no longer sting,

because I know

I'm the one living.

And she is a memory

blowing in the wind.