Been Doing Anything Exciting?

“The ghosts in the house were waiting. They knew someone would come to them. Ghosts mean us no harm. They’re never warm. You can see through ghosts like I can see through you. Him, him, him, him, him, him, he’s the only one you think about, but I have friends and the pipes have frozen. This group’s got your shit possessed, but there’s more, isn’t there? The gaping void where your sad soul sat. This and that be held close and over flame in dreams. The skeleton in you is a rattling. On the part of the brain that hallucinates, they speak to you in squeals like nails on a chalkboard and nails in the coffin of someone breathing in the dark of the box. If the cats see you wanting, and the half body gliding down the darkened hallway, they will know and judge with their eyes. The spark of his blood glitters the stairs. The knife shining in the light of the moon frozen above my neck like a dead star. The cries buried in whispers seep through the garden like
murmurs sifting through the rib cage. The slim candle flickers after flame, beats in the night wind and tries to snuff it out. The machinery of the old wheelchair is faulty with crumbling dark red rust, and screeches like rats burrowing their way to the soft brain through the eye sockets, reaching for warmth. It’s a difficult way to grieve in the murky water, breath barely held as he fights to hold her golden haired head under the stagnant water of the garden pond. Dead leaves litter like skeletons of ships and decomposing hands and the water bugs skim the surface reflection. Black tadpoles silhouetted by the pale skin of her thin nude body swim, bloated and ill with plague these sick swollen sperm that are curiously investigating her body. There’s a light in the window of the locked room in the attic. Something deformed looked out at me.”