The Ghost

Ever since my bed shook violently ( first thought: dog; second thought: ghost - a ghost! A real live ghost!
It's really happening
) I've been waiting for another.
The back of my neck turns red when I am stressed. The insides churn and muscles twist. My eyes feel sour. I'm only floating, then, as a last resort to survive. Holding on to something floating.

So I sit and wait for the room to shake. For the water to reach over like a fathers hand, peering into my windows, splashing and gnawing at my nest, pulling my hair like worms from my head. Sanitizing (death cleans the surface, shines the china).

It's almost like the time the rusty red truck slammed into my passenger side. I didn't see it coming and the next minute my little blue was facing the sunset and the huge crash echoed over and over in my head. For weeks a bomb dropped next to me, my eyes winced, my neck braced. The smell of gasoline, the faces, all the same looking at me from behind the glass reflecting the big blue.