Haunted House - Hannah Rae

I put the flame of the lighter to my wrist,

skin puckering like a loved mouth,

the morning sun doesn’t even do me so good.

It is seven a.m. – I recall

the childhood ghost who lived in my closet

back in that run-down victorian on the ocean -

pink shutters, biting dog.

She would emerge in the night

to walk the stairs,

I have become her,

carrying these goodbyes

like great roses, this purposeless wandering -

grown tired too, the blood

on the bathroom wallpaper.

Each night I clean

but the stains never really come off, do they darling?

I never meant to hurt myself, was only looking

for something that felt good.

I carry this behavior even now,

in offerings far greater than blood

and the sun comes down on me so hard,

and never enough.

Starving to death at the foot of your bed -

you loved me so much back then.

I pray to the image of myself in the wallpaper,

just one more time

love me again.

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Hannah Rae has B.S. in Physics and is a scientist by day, writer by night. Hannah's work revolves around the exploration of past violence and abuse resulting in the loss of personal identity, and the journey to find herself again. She enjoys hikes through the woods alone to identify flowers and fungi and long drives to historic cemeteries with the company of a good coffee.