Poetry

My Ghost House

I’m sedentary,

I have returned at last

to my Ghost House.

Who’s walls used to ring

with the shouts and laughs of children

If you listen hard, you can still hear Paw Patrol

or the echos of a door slam.

All that is left

Is the toothbrush on the bathroom counter,

A juice stain on the carpet

A single tiny shoe

Forgotten in the stairwell

I could tell you

Endless stories,

I could yell

and still now be able to drown out

the sound of silence in my Ghost House.

I returned,

heavy with guilt

eager to come to rest

bursting with trepidation

In seconds I slipped back into the sedation.

My body forms a groove in the bed

It becomes a game in my head,

How many days can i go without moving?

Vertical is over rate.

I will fuse,

I refuse to move again

Fetus position, the bed a womb

My Ghost House

My tomb.

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