misty quigley doesn't believe in ghosts.
but sometimes—sometimes, dark hair clogs her kitchen sink
the plumber says there's nothing there,
so she tries another,
and another,
and another,
until it stops.
just a dream, nothing more
time passes, autumn turns grey,
the sink clogs again,
again and again and again.
it's humiliating, almost—
she dips her finger into the sludge,
it feels invigorating, intimate,
but so angry, so angry,
unwilling to be touched,
even by a hopeless begger,
doe-eyed, blind with devotion,
face down in the dirt,
blood and saliva pooling in her hair,
a hand—smaller, then,
beating her, again and again,
now? She traces the soft curve of her breast—
taunting her, teasing her.
she partakes in the flesh,
lets it fall from her bones,
liquid brown, putrid,
flesh like rotten peaches,
a dead girl in disguise,
whiskeyed breath touches her neck,
warm, so warm
just a taste—
of something bitter
of something sweet
it's familiar—
a haunting.