This is an image of a foggy road.

a pleasant sort of haunting by elianna tenace

it nests inside my wretched house. mother swears i caught it on the trip,

thinks i hurt something i shouldn’t. 

but ghosts don’t catch like colds. when i fall, 

wine-drunk and pleased 

soft hands pull my threads 

sighing from under my bed 

its a new gentleness 

in every window, the same tired scene a blood-red sky and 

the sun a fat tear 

dripping down,