don't feed the ghosts,
at least not with poems,
it only makes them come around more often.
like the Louisiana woman
who used to feed the alligator in her back yard -
then found it on to her porch,
peering in through the screen door.
teeth and tail
they get stronger with each line,
each clever metaphor
comparing them to something living.
you'll wake up with them sitting on your chest
clawed feet pressing through the sheets
into your breasts and stomach,
yellow eyes staring.
feed them enough
and one day they will roll you under the water
with a lashing splash
leaving only scribbled journal pages
bobbing on the surface.
at least not with poems,
it only makes them come around more often.
like the Louisiana woman
who used to feed the alligator in her back yard -
then found it on to her porch,
peering in through the screen door.
teeth and tail
they get stronger with each line,
each clever metaphor
comparing them to something living.
you'll wake up with them sitting on your chest
clawed feet pressing through the sheets
into your breasts and stomach,
yellow eyes staring.
feed them enough
and one day they will roll you under the water
with a lashing splash
leaving only scribbled journal pages
bobbing on the surface.
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