The Master's Mansion
Behind closed doors
Are heaps of gore;
Snapped skeletons, stripped
Skin, red ruckus seeping from
Les fleurs.
Tinted pink and white carpets
Line the narrow passageways
Steps pitter-patter
Stomp and grind.
Creating dark tracks
Mudmarks
And footprints of how the
Ghost-people walk.
The kitchen is property of Him.
The dangerous force that only stirs
To bake us- dinner
He says, it's to die for.
I try not to take words so
Literally.
Last night my friend Suzy ran away….
Then we ate Salmon.
He said it would make me feel better.
I grieved with vomit.
The red chunks of hair made my sobs wetter.
Now I'm hiding.
I can hear him stomp up the
Stairs while I'm writing
Calling my name
Wishing me to play also
His sick twisted game