The Spirits Still Linger Come November 1st

He is trauma
A beautiful blue home on top of crumbling foundation
Disguised by a model cut lawn and tangles of weeds
Built by a father who turned pronouns into crowbars
Taught him his truth was something to keep in the dark of the basement.
When he was a child, he watched his mother turn into scarlet ash
Watched the only person who loved the boy rather than the birth certificate
Disappear into the steel mouth of a coroner’s van.
Now he feels seasick every time he walks up the stairs.
When he met her
The February girl with kerosene eyes
That told him he was magic
He didn’t know what to tell her
He was condemned
No one could hold onto him without bruising their knuckles
And she had the most delicate hands.
He had night terrors that shook the rafters
Echoed down hallways like the moans of ghosts.
When she laughed
Said she wasn’t afraid of a little scar tissue
Knew where to keep the flash lights
Would adore everything he was told to despise.
He didn’t know how to respond
All he could do was unlock the door
Let her wander inside the foyer
Warm up to the idea of calling the haunted house