What do your ghosts look like?
Do they stare back at you from a sidewalk puddle below,
Or greet you with half-shut eyes from a shadow?
Do their hands lift you up in the morning and tuck you in at night?
You could lay me down but you could never pick me back up

Where do your ghosts live?
Do they haunt the places on your body where nervous hands were laid,
Trembling at skin, at stretch marks, at dips.
Or do they spiral up from your feet,
Wrapping like a boa during suffocation,
gasping for release?

How do your ghosts feel?
Like a tightening grip on the handle
Of a car speeding through a blurry city
Of a plane dipping too quickly
Like palms sinking deeply into your throat
pulling too quick too quick too hard, too bad
“You’re a shy girl, you know that?”

What do your demons look like?
Are they as scary as a lion showing its teeth?
Are they as tall as redwood trees?

Given the power I could make you weak
But maybe I’m as scary
As two eyes poked through a white sheet