To love me
is to love a haunted house.
It’s fun to visit once a year,
but no one wants to live there.
When you say,
Tell me about the bad days,
it sounds like all the neighborhood kids
daring each other to ring the doorbell.
You love me
like the family
walking through Horrorland holding hands—
you are not stupid,
or careless,
or even brave.
You’ve just never seen
the close-up of a haunting.
Darling,
this love will not cure me.
This love will not scrape
the blood from the baseboards,
but it will turn all the lights on.
It will bring basil
back from the farmers market
and it will plant it in every windowsill.
It is the kind of love
that gives me goosebumps
when you say to the ghosts,
If you’re staying
then you better make room
Several times in the past, I've used the moniker Ennui Prayer. While I still use that name, I decided it's time that I start a blog with my
View all posts by Guillermo
Chapin City Blues 
One thought on “from “Anxiety: A Ghost Story””