Growing up is becoming a haunted house on legs,
full of ghosts,
wisps of memory fading in murky bogland,  secrets spoken under cover of darkness and sheets -
It is learning to live in the creaking halls,
to unpack the boxes you can and occasionally, dust the remainder,
unraveling the dialects of the wailing in the knowledge that not every ghost you harbor can be understood,
you are the first and the last - each unearthly door to nowhere that trails through your rickety frame
a mirror constructed in your image -
All my love to the ghosts who have taught me everything I know,
Like just how heavy the light can be.