We built a haunting in the silent spaces, buried a living thing in my childhood baby dolls and music box ballerinas, splitting their limbs to stay
in step; Dancing Bear books and ice skates rest on the shelves now covered in dust just wanting to rest, but the rot keeps them up.
We buried a breathing thing here—
a coffin for each memory we didn’t dare dig up. Spirits lurking
around every pageant queen trophy and all the trinkets we used to convince her she was a girl, innocent girl. A jewelry box filled with twenty years of secrets. Things no one dared to tell.
This door has been locked and shut; a locket on the dresser to remind us that memories are best kept away and private.
Photographs of me smiling, but wanting to shutter and run. No one could tell
I was waiting for the day to escape the porcelain faces, the Minnie Mouse pink patterned sheets and curtains,
The repetitive TV static and terror that only resides in my head now.
I remember my seventeenth birthday, how I was so ready to run free from the carousels and tutus, run away from the thought of home.
I peeked inside my room for the last time before leaving, and I could have sworn I saw them all dancing, drinking tea on the graves.