Your mind is a haunted house.

You send your ghosts away

before they evolve into demons

you can no longer fight.

You can’t move,

you can only build more rooms.

And string Christmas lights

along every wall to add color to this hell.

If you’re lucky you will be able to write again,

creating beauty that won’t be forgotten or ugliness

that makes no sense.

You struggle and push onward.

Don’t give up.

You can do this.