Ghosts haunt my house. Square-shaped marks imprinted in the carpet. Faint patches of food colouring on the kitchen floor. Chips in the skirting board carved out by little boys’ toy trucks. The smell of cigarettes stained into the wallpaper.
They are clogged up drains, the tap which doesn’t turn on, the breaking down of lives before.
Ghosts lie on top of the range hood, flattening themselves into a thin unobtrusive layer. They are able to disintegrate and find themselves again and again. They hide under the floor, groaning when stepped on. They curl into in chandeliers and pull at hair on the heads which come too close – chink chink chink... They play on window hinges, swinging back and forth like children on playgrounds.
They are always there and if you can’t see them, you can hear them. If you can’t hear them you can feel them. Ghosts know we are the intruders, but we think they are.
They were here first.
Ghosts in the shower head pouring out onto me, saturating me. They run into the pores of my skin, sink into my hair folicles. They become me and I become them.
Ghosts are the shit which is stuck to the toilet bowl and won’t be scrubbed off.
This is my favourite.
ReplyDeleteThe other week I scrubbed pencil drawings off the wallpaper in my bedroom. Scribbles from what looked like a three year old and a measuring chart with childrens names and their height by my doorway. It made me wonder.
I think measuring charts left in houses from past owners/tenants is one of the most exciting ghosts.
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