Ghost Story
You made me your home and when you left I became a haunted house.
No one wants to live in something that has been cursed.
No one wants broken shutters
or cracked beer bottles
or just a hell of a lot of boiling blood.
No one wants to try and fix the broken ones.
Everyone seems to head the warning sings-
get out I might break down.
They make fun of me and whisper
as if I’m a ghost story,
but they are afraid that I might hear them.
They are afraid that maybe they are Wrong.
I wasn’t drunk, neither was he.
I saw a thousand murdered souls
in his hands every time he hit me.
He broke all the furniture I had,
he threw stones at my windows
and he laughed as ricketed off the roof.
I can hear my glass shatter into a thousand shining dimes on the floor. Sometimes when I tip toe around the barren rooms
I can still hear them.
I can still hear his laughter and it rings
in my basement
even when I’m covering my ears.
But no one comes in here.
I bode in my white dress because I’m trying to convince myself
that there was never any blood.
There was never me screaming out my eyes in that basement.
There was only this.
This quiet twilight dream.
My face is pale because haven’t met the sun in months.
Maybe I look a little like a broken ghost,
but that’s only because you made me one.
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