To: My Haunted Home

Dear Old Friend,

Sometimes I get scared when I reach

back for old memories 

only to find a hallow

bin full of half-emptied scrapbooks. 

I’m sprinting towards 

Half baked memories 

I’ve patched up myself, 

but they’re not how they once were.

Tired pictures of me bouncing on dads knee

are foreign to me.

I woke up when I turned sixteen.

Blame the weed if you want—

it feels like seeing memories as poetry. 

Fragmented, highlighting the beauty 

in the fog. Us poets hold

our tormentors up on 

A throne made of glass.

And hope someone chooses to see 

through it. 

The home I woke up in was gutted 

from the inside out. 

Taken from me too soon—

what I think was serenity

A driveway stained with our clothes, 

our pictures, our lives.

The blood that clung to the floors

used to make me breakfast.

Our address still pops into my head 

Now and again, and I still make 

egg sandwiches the way you liked them.