Haunting

I loved you like a haunting. No, look at me. I loved you like a haunting

of myself. I loved you like the strength of it could bring me back to life. I loved you

like an old house loves its emptiness: every creak of wind that caresses the eaves,

every memory trapped beneath the wallpaper. And yes—

maybe I should learn to bury my dead as you taught me; maybe I should dig a grave

for all the things I didn’t say and leave them forgotten

in the woods. But I have never been good at letting go; you told me this

and I have become it. Now the fog is rising

and I cannot see you anymore. I loved you

like it could save me, or like it could save you. I want to scream at you,

but I know you won’t listen. Look at me, look at me. No, closer;

you’re not looking. Tear me open like you mean it. Take out my organs

and my entrails and read in them your glistening future. Leave my bloody remains

on the forest floor until moss grows over my bones; where the foxes

will scream until I wake. I’ll give the ravens the buttons from my coat

and the rings from my fingers and the knots between my bones. I’ll board up the windows

and bar the doors and turn the house into a museum

of all the bruises you gave me. I’ll stop cherishing a black eye

like it’s a badge of honour. I’ll stop acting like I came back from a war

after every word you spoke. I’ll let the ghosts out into the mist and let them scream

if you just promise you’ll come home.

Ayla Bushell is a 17-year-old writer from the UK and Australia currently based in Puerto Rico. An avid reader and writer from childhood, she has an ever-growing list of novel ideas she insists she will write one day. Apart from writing, she enjoys reading books that make her cry, listening to Hozier and classical music, and researching obscure historical figures.