A book of poems that probably aren't that great, but I write them anyway because I have nothing better to do.
Warning! Some of my poems are about topics such as depression, self harm, rape, and anxiety. They may also contain course language. Please...
Mrs. Dawson sliced bread and passed it over to me, along with a serving of shepherd's pie. Its mashed-potato crust was baked golden, and the vegetables and beef inside filled the kitchen with an aroma that made me hungry in spite of myself.
Mrs. Dawson watched me eat. "You may not be ailing," she said, "but something's eating at you."
Looking Mrs. Dawson in the eye, I said, "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Mrs. Dawson must have heard the fear in my voice. Studying me closely, she said "Has something frightened you Florence?"
Surrendering to my need for comfort, I flung my arms around her and pressed my face against her soft body. "Sophia," I sobbed. "I saw her today. She was hideous, horrible, monstrous."
Mrs. Dawson rocked me gently. "No, no, Florence. Sophia is dead and gone."
"But I tell you, I saw her," I insisted. "She spoke to me."
Mrs. Dawson took me by my shoulders and held me at arm's length. "And I tell you, you dreamed it." Her eyes implored me to agree with her. "You're lonely here, you want a friend, and you've made yourself believe in Sophia."
Page 68, The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall by Mary Downing Hahn
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Poem:
Mrs. Dawson Sliced me up But said She couldn't Do it To Sophia
