Ghost

there's so much brokeness in these quiet still rooms
even the living have ghosts, I promise you
he haunts this home,
the hinges
on the door, still broken
once torn from the wall
the deafening fall
I can still see his fist
inches from my face
trembling with rage
I can still hear my screaming "just do it
already" because at least you could've seen the the bruises
at least they would've one day faded
unlike this permanent sickness
seeping from these walls - like a mold, you can almost
taste it

my mother is as vacant as these quiet still rooms
she smiles softly, like Everything's Alright, like she can't feel the anger reverberating
from every room in this god forsaken place, like none
of this ever happened
in this house we like to play pretend
the game of One Big Happy Family, but sit still long enough
and you can hear the demons crawling, so we laugh
to cover the sound, and because
it hurts so much less
than crying

but not all ghosts are menacing in these quiet still rooms
there are still spirits lingering
of christmas-time french toast, cinnamon scents wafting through hallways
and fresh brewed coffee and grandma's hugs and late night chats and morning glories, this place
is home
and I know
it shouldn't be
but they need me, don't they?
what would happen if I left?
what would happen to the dishes in the sink
or the ones he shatters on a bad day, tell me who
would pick up the pieces
when I'm gone?
but you see
the most terrifying thing, more so
than any ghost
is that I don't know what's worse - the idea that they need me
or that they don't