Loving you
is like living in a house full of ghosts.
I've met at least three
at one time or another.
The first was a familiar one.
I'd met her before, even
offered her metaphysical tea.
The second was nonthreatening.
She was as round-faced as a birthday cake.
I laughed at her; you scolded me
for mocking the dead.
The third tugged at my hair
because she must have thought it was hers.
Her invisible hands clench around my throat
even after the fact.
She danced an icy waltz up my spine.
The jewelry box opened and shut
and the ballerina climbed out.
She spun on your knee and you kissed her painted lips.
I closed my eyes, ready
to vanish.
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