Could you please, please
Please
For the love of God
For just one hour
Stop haunting my bloody living room?
You supernatural wanker
You smug, ethereal, invisible prick.
Banging on doors and
Tugging at curtains
Then presumably, silently, laughing yourself sick
Were you like this when you were alive?
Stealing things? Slamming doors?
Adding things to the search history on my laptop?
Except now you’re invisible,
So you’re extra delighted with yourself.
Did you take my pen? Was that you?
Because it’s not where I put it this morning.
And this has all the hallmarks of your behaviour.
It’s pathetic.
It’s derivative.
Do you genuinely find this rewarding?
Is this what you talk about at spooky club?
To all the other ghosts?
“I stole a pen”?
“He was looking for a pen but… whoaaaah!
It wasn’t where he expected!
Terrifying!
I’d used my otherworldly powers to hide it
Because I’m a restless entity
Beyond mortal comprehension.”
I hope the other ghosts laugh at you.
I hope they do it to your face
If you even have one
I hope you meet a ghost who’s done a murder,
Or a possession
And you feel, rightfully, inadequate by comparison
Where’s my pen?
I hope you die again, only worse.
And it’s really painful and humiliating
And then you’re still a ghost,
But next time you get a different curse
Where you’re compelled to roam the earth
Putting things back where they belong
Or closing doors
Or working out which day the bins go out
Or dispensing pens
Rather than stealing them when I need them most
I’ve looked up your name and it means, “Noisy spirit.”
But it shouldn’t say that. It should say, “Tosser.”
Because that is what you are.
Literally, I suppose, because you do throw things about
But that’s not what I mean
I mean, you should be ashamed of yourself
Using the spiritual realm to mess up my house
Anyway.
I found my pen.
It was in the car.
I’m not apologising.
It might not have been you, but
It’s the sort of thing you would have done
If you were real
Man in the blue overalls?
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