Becoming the Revenant

There’s a leak. Plasma-splatter. The woman in my attic slit her wrists, and the ceiling has been dripping crimson ever since. I should have known when she drew a bath that she was planning on a blood letting. Waxing and waning, apparition-draining. She was built from ghosts. So now, when it’s dark, her tiny hauntings drip out of my mouth. Diaphanous-glow of hexed remains, clogging my tear ducts. I am siphoning her in plagues. Gulp down at deja vu. Baptism by memory. Premonition-swallow. I’m leeching away at the specter-drenched detritus, and the phantoms leave me vacant. Catatonia, filling me void. Broken-bone, devouring. Make me the vessel. Wordless exorcism. Forsake me, hollow. Let me be the empty spell that holds her shadows.