I skip the bus and walk an hour uptown
to clear my head of the cobwebs I hung there.

It’s raining, and my umbrella cost £5 at a drugstore in
London. It is flimsy and frayed and as untrustworthy
as the voices in my head. Before,

I would just keep moving. Now,
I could wake up at five and go for a run
but it’s too dark in this city at that hour,
and it’d feel like running from something.
I’ve been watching too many ghost hunting shows
for that to not be made a metaphor.
Why is it always a metaphor.

I jump mile-high at every floorboard creak,
in case it’s someone coming to find me.
I am silent and still in all the corners of empty rooms,
listening for whispers and chasing things
that would be better off if only
I could just leave them dead.

I don’t know. I don’t think I can get over you.
Even though that choice isn’t mine anymore.

If I died, maybe on one of those early morning runs,
maybe tripping off a bridge or getting
mugged in an alley– if I died, sorry, but
I’d probably stick around to haunt you.

~

I really have been watching too many ghost hunting shows.

The Poem-a-day series is more like a collection of rough drafts. I can come back to them and reshape them in any way I please, but it’s at least a poem that I’ve brought into this world. A nice break from staring blankly at my latest short story.

If you have any favorite ghost stories, leave them in the comments. I’m always hunting.

xx,
Meg