I’m haunted by memories
Ghosts of those I’d put too much faith into
Chain rattling, crimson lipstick wearing, hopeful spirits
They dance about the decrepit ballrooms of my dreams
Scrawling on the walls
“Ketchup isn’t for hotdogs, you’ll never matter, and *******!”
I’d be lying if I said I don’t get sad.
Then though.
I pour another glass of whiskey.
And she reminds me.
That the spirits are right
Ketchup does not belong on a hotdog.