There are ghosts 

There are ghosts stuck between the stripes and the innocence beneath them they are filled 

To the brim with ashes of a purple and yellow summer they are trapped 

Next to broken doors and bandages and snowflakes in a box they are screaming 

Can you hear them? 

 

They are singing through mouths filled with salt water and glass  

And yet the sound echoes 

Sound of paint dripping down walls and plastic bags  

Sound of red tights and black shirts  

Sound of new beginnings 

 

There are ghosts tucked between chlorine-splattered mattresses they are melting 

Under the circles that pretend to be home they are smiling 

Through tears made of dirt and hourglasses they are yours 

They are your ghosts 

They are your home. 

 

Home. 

 

Let me go home