i am haunted by places no one sees. i am haunted by boys with sugar tongues and salt eyes. i bleed from the visions of girls i buried to make space for their wanting. parts of me curl up in a corner and stay small to survive the storms. i collect goodbyes like loose threads in an old knit sweater, pulling at them when the house feels too still. i wonder if ghosts ever get tired of returning. i wonder if love ever learns how to stay. i wear my longing like perfume — faint. i wait for someone who won’t knock but will know someone is home. i am haunted by the scent of warm kitchens that knew my hunger but never my name. i am haunted by the cinnamon — how sweet it smelled before it burned. it burns slow, but it always burns. it clings to my clothes, my throat, the air after i say too much. i think i’m made of it now.

then, i wake to

memories

  that crawl

    back

      into bed

        with me,

whispering

 almosts

   and

    never

      agains.