I just found a poem in the back of an old journal. Funny, I refused to paint Vesper’s room pink. Her walls are green, with orange carpet and green gingham curtains. Pink is for sissies. Poems are too.
…
The dirt and wood, and brown crickets
show the truth these walls were hiding.
Not ghosts or rackets
just walled up winter suicide.
In this time when every nail buckles
the quiet belongs to the creatures
the quiet that’s been stolen once
or ten thousand times this year.
In these walls I find a hole
that comes right back to me, filled
with stucco and spirit of the scents
we give the house ghosts.
…
This creeps me out. I reminds me of this dream I had as a girl… in a haunted house, if I stood against a wall, an old lady ghost’s hand would puncture the wall and knife me in the back. Twisted!
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