because it comes from inside me
I am the thing that floats past windows in all white,
I am the cold spot, and the strange noise in the middle of the night.
I would like nothing more than to do away with
fear and live my life as the living do; to release this spirit
that has been rotting inside a family heirloom.
how long will I moan through the floorboards?
how long will I go behind the vases and push them — shatter them,
hoping that someone will finally take notice?
and if I ever decide to rise from the dead, who will I be then?
I’d like to leave this old house.