The Midnight House

The night fades into me
or perhaps it’s the other way around,
but it makes no difference

because I always end up here,
on the other side of sunshine
between the hush of four walls
with scorched palms
and black feathers
in clenched fists.

I always end up here,
in the red room
with amber glow and body dust
where the nightmare never screams
and the worry whispers terror so loud
it makes the morning seem so far away.

I always end up here,
with nostrils caked in soot and ash
where it stinks of singed hair
and burnt skin folding in on memories;
where the door is ajar
and my eyes are glued shut.

The things that wander in.

The Wind

If you ask me about hope,
I’ll tell you about the days
when it knocks on my door
and I don’t answer.
When it comes to soften edges
and feed phantoms.
When it’s the cruel caller,
the corpse at the door.
When it waits dead.
On those days,
I don’t want what it brings,
so I become the wind.
I tear the roof from this house
and the sky falls in:
old wounds shake loose.

Fetching Seeds

If you ask me about
being strong,
or resilient,
or brave,

I’ll tell you about unfolding edges
and rebuilding
from a million little pieces
despite the wreck that remains;

and digging the dirt to bedrock
to fracture and shatter,
splinter and break.

I’ll tell you about going downward
and inward, and meeting with sorrow
and speaking to pain;

and when hell spills from your bones,
that you’ll fetch seeds from the
dried-up darkness and grow gardens
from graves.

Ghost Story

I thought I saw you
out of the corner of my eye,
but it was just your ghost
playing tricks on my mind.


Your ghost lives
in my peripheral vision.
It whispers in my ear,
I’m still here.

It speaks to me through
muffled voices in crowded
places, in and around the
everyday shuffling.

It makes contact through
the eyes of countless strangers,
who I don’t really think know
what it is to be haunted or surely,
they would turn away and
spare me your gaze.