Skeletons in the Closet
They rattle when the house is still,
whispers scraping through the night.
Behind the oak doors, locked and shut,
they stir where shadows choke the light.
I hear them shift, I feel them grin,
their hollow laughter calls my name.
A chorus born of buried sins,
each syllable a hiss of blame.
I swore I'd leave them in the dark,
sealed beneath the weight of years.
But ghosts have ways of finding cracks,
of seeping through my brittle fears.