I‘m not a person,
I‘m a place.
Splitting paint,
shattered glass,
creeking
with every step you take.

They‘re scared of my past,
afraid of the ghosts I can’t let go.
Barely anyone comes to visit,
and if they do,
it’s only once
before they leave again.

Some people come
just to break me even more.
Another shattered window,
another broken door,
taking things
without asking before.

I‘m a haunted house,
of course no one stays,
no one comes prepared
for the ghosts that haunt me,
and how dark it can be.