I hear her wake up
and begin mooing in pain
until she’s crying.

I’m incapable/
entirely useless to help.
So I’m listening.

I grip my bedsheets
and ponder how blood ecapes
the white of my fist.

Everything I’d ****
is somehow intangible.
Magically and

Invisibly, it
drifts about these halls, crying;
Hate turning to fear.

Grip something solid,
and wish it were the throat of
that **** ghost, haunting...

My dreams are empty,
my greatest fears are realized,
my sleep is disturbed.

I am alone now,
listening to cries of pain.
My knuckles are white.