Ghosts
A crisp line painted across
my brain, following through the pools of pain that soak my memory.
I have seen ghosts.
They are vacant from houses and gravesites,
they sit instead curled in my inner ear
whispering.
Muttering to me tales of the dark
in guttural tongues I’ve never heard
of the darkness I already know
One licks it’s teeth and stares out through my eyes
drenching the windows with inky gray grit, and spitting tobacco into all my good moods.
They paint portraits
across my mind,
Swirling reds and blacks over which I try to bleed purple
But the blood is only ever red isn’t it.
My red or theirs.
On the worst of days I cannot tell, so I spill more
of my own, just to be
safe.
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