Published on: 6/23/2015
She Haunts My House

She haunts my house,
creeps through the door,
hesitates, hovers
on the stairs before

walking through walls,
shimmering on ceilings,
hiding her scars,
showing her feelings.

Dead hands in the dark
stroke my spine and remind me
of the way her fingers
would search, and then find me.

Last night I saw
a strand of her hair
curled on the carpet
in front of my chair.

Fear parts my lips—
makes me confess.
You killed her, didn't you?
I whisper: Yes.