a text about home.

there‘s a house i don’t enter anymore.

not because it’s locked,

but because the walls still breathe.

they hum with footsteps that never leave,

whispers stitched into the wallpaper,

shadows that flicker even when the lights are out.

she lives in the hallway mirror,

smiling that smile that was always teeth.

her lullabies were curses,

her ever so rare mercy unpredictable.

he is in the chair by the window,

not quite present,

not quite gone.

he saw nothing,

which is its own kind of haunting.

there‘s no blood on the floors,

no claw marks on the doors,

and yet..

every time i step inside, the air tightens.

like memory has hands.

like silence can drag you under.

this house is not abandoned.

it is occupied.

by the kind of ghosts

that wear your last name.

— Lux