Tag Archives: autobiographical

Ghost her own home

She bumps in different rooms, she bumps in different worlds, different time zones, different countries, different beds. The midnight footsteps. The doors that open and close. The cold, always the cold when she’s around. And then the laughter, warmth on another plain, audible through this membrane, audible and awful and terrible.

Like in the beginning, she gives me sleepless nights. I hear her in the kitchen at odd hours; water runs; she makes toast. It’s dark. It’s three in the morning.

There’s excorcism in arguments, my accusations, her threats and abuse. I start to count my blessings, each and every one I’ll leave behind. Existence streamlined. Just to walk away, let her haunt someone else.