Haunt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Harsh liquors stained the breath for when the silence was not appealing; The counter is unattractive in appearance and to tap its wooden build, it feels to crumble. The humming of deadness is repulsive, and I wept beneath the desolation that could have been a home to someone else, too... Could have.

Submitted: September 04, 2013

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Submitted: September 04, 2013

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A A A


Harsh liquors stained the breath for when the silence was not appealing; The counter is unattractive in appearance and to tap its wooden build, it feels to crumble. The humming of deadness is repulsive, and I wept beneath the desolation that could have been a home to someone else, too... Could have.

I hear no sighing of myself; too weak for the throat to vibrate. I will stain my breath again and three fold; whatever to replace the memory of a sturdy counter she once sat at. The fixture of light that used to gleam her green eyes brighter - wider. A greeting in sight, grand for the curvature of facial indentions to mold her dimples, the way of assurance I had done right by her. The sway of hair, that crisp of light curls; that love you are fretful to have, fretful to not.

The tar does not smother lungs quick enough, for each hit I take. The reiteration of smoke to drift from the lips, as the smoke that consumed her as well. I still hear the crackling of wood to break, exhausted with collapsing from beneath. In the way floor boards gave in, to taking my essence with it. Remorse does not fathom the finding of small feet to dangle from the hole it sunk.

It molds, and it decays; our home. Though it treads in frequency - a small voice again, to hear "Mommy". I listen ever so carefully, there reassuring I have gone inane; In desperation, my movements wait and I listen again to the whisper that is cast slowly to scream - "Mommy".

I do not wait anymore; for a leap of the stool and I have to search. Vision is lacking when liquors fled the veins; the heart rushes to scent of lavender and follow its trail. Pricking the flesh of arches in each step that is taken, shards of shattered glasses and the large mirror that once hung in our halls. Her door is morbid - as it hangs burnt and barely gripped to its hinges. A shove and it stumbles hard; laying black, the hole she fell from, centre to the room she slept. The points of wooden splinters, the contemplation of impalement.

The memory trails black, and back to the beginning I have gone; To lay where I lie, glancing upward to the loss of movement in the acknowledgement I step too closely at its edge that in its faltering - I had no daughter.


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