My bedroom was at the back of our house - 
the house with green shutters on Spring St. 
that my parents bragged was over 150 years old.
In my closet lived the attic door.
It remained unnoticed most of the time – 
square, 
wooden,
resting in my closet ceiling
until I lay awake in bed 
at night, when my mind 
wandered and the house 
made creaking sounds that my parents claimed
were due to its old age.
Then I wondered what might 
exist up in the attic,
other than the boxes of Halloween costumes, 
Christmas decorations and outgrown clothes.
To quell my fear 
I resolved 
to make friends with the ghosts in my mind -
the ones who slip through attic doors.
I imagined hosting elaborate parties for them right there in my bed. 


I still sometimes lay sleepless
planning parties for them - the ghosts upstairs
the ones who can 
slip through 
attic doors. 

These pics were generated by AI based on my poem above.

NaPoWriMo Day Nineteen prompt:

“Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.”

https://www.napowrimo.net/day-nineteen-8/