The Haunted House

It’s late October and my skin is frail.

My bones break too easily, like a doll.

Every memory is a creaking step

In the staircase built upon lies and neglect.

The green of my eyes is now coated glass;

Windows are nothing more than shattered cracks.

Bones will appear through my paled skin,

Protruding as if I am only a skeleton.

Ghosts from my past live in the hallways;

Yearning to reappear and send me back

To live inside the mazes and ripped pages

Of the sickly stories of my regrets.

Echoes become ever present throughout

The emptiness of my living.

Who I've been is someone else;

A fragment that haunts this house.

But behind this home made of nothing good,

Are the woods that have buried the past lives I have lived.

It’s nearing October once again.

People tend to crave the unfamiliar fright.

It has become a popular attraction to see:

The haunted house; the girl I used to be.