I wander through my house,
looking for things that leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
I look for ghosts,
and traces of haunted pasts.
But what I often overlook,
is the gloom and malaise that I cause.
I am the unease in your stomach,
the chill up your arm.
I am the darkness looming,
and the stairs you won't go down.
I am the fear you have,
of cramped corners and closed spaces.
I am the voices you hear in the dark,
and the fingers that you thought touched your hair.
I am the nausea you feel,
every time you look down from high places.
I am your breath quickening,
breath held.
I am the ghost you see walk past,
and the haze you photograph.
I haunt my own house,
and I sincerely hope I don't haunt you.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
