I woke up in time

before the flames got to me.

I didn’t take a second glance

walking past your door.

You burned down our house

so I left you charred.

You are flesh and bones
and dusty roads,
I am a small pebble
in your steel toe boots,
a desert prickly pear.

You are a worn old Buick
dirt caked tires,
and your voice
a warm whiskey —

with a hint of sarsaparilla.

You are Dusty Springfield spooky,
the desert wind
has me under its spell
and you are freedom.

I have dreams where

I scream at you until

my voice breaks and I

can no longer breath.

I wake up sweating and red faced.

You won’t leave me alone.

I keep telling you to stay away.

You only stare back at me and smile.

In my dreams you are always across the street.

I scream until I see stars but you only step closer.

I see the shadow of your feet infiltrating

the light underneath my bedroom door.

I slash open the palm of my hand as an offering of peace.

The blood drips and weaves toward the door.

A puddle collects by your boots.

Snakes around the back of your heel.

But you remain.

No amount of blood could satisfy you.

 

So I lay my gun on the nightstand,

across from the red room key.

This is an old mining town in the middle of hell.

Many people die here.

A paranormal group takes pictures of ghosts and peeling walls.

My gun lay at the side ready.