My house is haunted.

You can tell that it’s haunted,
From unfinished suicide notes,
Carved into the paint of the bathroom piping
And messages to no one in particular,
Scribbled under the large marble dining table.

Perhaps it is the sound of skull on concrete walls,
Thumping away at the dead of night.
Or the shallow whimpers we hear coming from the balcony,
When it’s 3am and everyone should be sleeping.

My house is haunted,
Just not by ghosts or
Vengeful spirits laid not to rest,
But by ourselves,

Our pain
Our sorrow
Our frustration
Our regret


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