Ghost Head

It comes back to haunt me-

A childhood room, void

of warmth and color

despite neatly stitched sheets. 

Life lumps here, loafe

and lame.

What could it have been?

Vibrating floorboards,

words written upon walls

between 

nostalgic-before-long posters. 

But no-

Only white intersecting

circles upon a black wall. 

A phone at epicenter

harnessing the magnitude of

earthquakes. earthquakes. 

trembling spine

upon touch undivine

yet worthy of praise

nonetheless. 

But no, nononono,

it hides again

the grenade between

my shoulderblades

the pin a heart beaten

down. I was not born

in fire. A cold womb 

wept with woman worn.

The heat of resentment

will not warm the body

or soul. It was a cold winter

in utero.  

This is not my place to call home.

This is not my ground to grow roots

and then lay claim to them. 

Life handed me lemon-colored

shears to snip at my shoe-laced boots. 

Every sailor needs an anchor

but the weight of melancholy 

has weighed this vessel down

swimmingly. 

I have earned the coal 

that fuels this fiery

Smoke choking my soul. 

It is not a ghost, no

but a laid-in bed, made-in 

a cave.

It is survival enough to stay out of the grave.