The ghost that lives in the bathroom

likes to rearrange the


Can’t really blame her.

So much of her existence

must be colorless,

Everything in greyscale.

Those primary plastics

shine through the veil

and call to her like

carkeys to a toddler.


She used to play with the

recharging flashlight

before it died forever,

turning it on in the

middle of the night,

leaving it to languish,

with no one to guide

into the light.



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