Haunted (Poetry)

2; Red Room Of Anxiety

12-30-15 thirty eight days clean
Taking the keys to yet another memory drunken room this evening, I climb the dusty staircase.
The hallway I'm greeted with is dimly lit and empty.
I hesitantly make it to the end of the hall to a wooden ingress.
Stepping inside, I close the door behind me slowly.
The whole room is alive in red glow lighting,
With windows covered in black paint.
The walls are a dark black,
With our story written evenly in cursive in white chalk.

I feel a chill come over me and the lights flicker three times.
I immediately feel anxious as I lean against the door.
This is all I have left of you?
Where are your lips all over me?
Shutting my eyes tight, I ignore the sounds in this room.
I take three shaky breaths before I open my eyes again to see the very sheets we used to sweetly lie under, hanging from the ceiling. Spread across the now sheet-less bed are photos.

I approach the bed. The photos are of us.
When you kissed me on Second Street in the summer rain,
The time you brought me home for the first time and we playes video games in your bedroom until 1 a.m.,
And many more events are mapped out in front of me. I feel my eyes pool.
I don't want to love your ghost anymore. Your ghost gives me anxiety. You give me an electric spark in my veins.

I run out of the room as quick as possible, wanting so desperately for the anxiety at the bottom of my stomach and the images and questions in my head to just disa-fucking-pear. My heart aches to hear your voice again.
- (m.m)