Your name
Is nails on a chalkboard,
Slipping from my tongue like the slime of unwashed plates.
Vowels left unattended, a man at the door asking to be let in
Whom I don't know.

Your name
Is the creaking of a staircase,
Sending chills up my spine, for I am the only one who's home.
Syllables upended, a vase of ashes on the rug knocked over
By what I tell myself was the wind.

Your name
is the clicking of a lock,
opened from the outside
When only I own the key.
Consonants only hinted, a stillness in the air that settles on my skin.

Your name
Is haunted,
And it's ghost sleeps on my sheets
leaving behind the scent of roses and stomach acid
In it's wake.