I Don’t Believe in Ghosts

I really, really don't.

But there's something in my apartment. 


Something that makes soft, human noises in the living room.

I hear it when I'm home alone,

Soft footsteps,

Plastic bags crinkling,

Things being moved.

…There's never anything there.

Nothing but glimpses at the corner of my eye

And a feeling of being watched.

Nothing but goosebumps on my skin

I don't believe in ghosts.


But I know that she is there.

And I feel that she is harmless.

I know that she is "she".


Previous occupants all say:

"Oh! You met the ghost?"

Then, inexplicably they add:

"Don't worry, she's harmless,”

Things I never mentioned... they knew.

Does that mean they could be true?

But I shake my stubborn head.

I don't believe in ghosts, you see

Not even when they’re there.

And whatever she was, I noticed

She didn't like to be discussed.

Mentioning her meant losing things

Missing trinkets and earrings 


We laughed it off, because she's harmless, right?

But even so my chest felt tight.

I don't believe in ghosts.

And she'd like so much to keep it that way.


When I tell her story, my hands go numb.

I feel a slight tremor.

See flashes of red.

Change the subject

“I don’t believe in ghosts” I scoff,

Because it seems to me,

more and more when she’s brought up

She likes to slam the door

So I pretend I’m not convinced.

Ignore whispered rumors and meaningful stares

I debunk the odd occurrence

dismiss it as "coincidence"

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say

Because my throat is dry

She here to stay and gets her way

And talking about it makes it worse.

So hear my word, I’ve changed my mind:

I do believe in ghosts, I find.

I just don’t believe she’s harmless.