The Ghosts Still Live Here
I occupy every room in the old house
to let the ghosts know
that they are still alive.
I want them to know the coals that kept their spirit warm enough
to lie while wearing borrowed flesh and devalued bones,
are still felt through the wallpaper.
When I am lonely enough
to accept uncertainty for truth,
I let them touch the rivers of my palms,
and wonder if they can visualize who I was
before I knew myself,
or do they only marinade their hollow film
in all the memories that smell like lavender
and Sunday morning optimism.
I listen as they arch their backs and protrude their spines
with jubilation,
to the memories that share the same echo
as the sounds of their final confirmations.
it‘s the jealousy that clings to the dirt
they leave behind in my closet
that makes them feel at home in my presence.
In my youth,
I used to believe it was because I was special
Published by: In Parentheses Fall Volume 7-Issue 2