In the numb of the hopeless nights
when it’s just saltwater seeping
without a fuss, like a lullaby,
the quiet’s the calm of it
but they won’t give me that.
Have they got some nerve
to be rolling their eyes
and tsk tsk-ing my pain
like I should call them when it’s over,
sitting there judging me.
Emily and Jane titter mercilessly,
poke and jibe, stick their barbs
pretend they don’t know
what it’s about
and thank the lord they never
cared so much.
Sylvia laughs, her brooding chuckle
cutting me down to shreds
though I think she has almost no right
and almost more right than anyone
to eye me with disdain.
And even Rosie in her red bandanna
just glares and disapproves
like she’s ashamed of me.
For my dead lady ghosts, all I do
to make them proud,
is just to wipe off their smirks
and have better things to do
than to haunt little girls
in their bedrooms.