Toilet Ghost


At night a girl haunts my toilet.

I see the shadow of her

in the hallway, hear

the bathroom door open,

bare feet on cold tiles.

I have never seen her face

but in the mornings I

find clumps of her hair,

long black strands floating

in the water like tentacles.

She formulates into a shape,

stepping cyclically around my head,

seeping out of my mouth

until she becomes someone I accommodate,

a guest in my house.

I begin to leave halved figs in the sink,

place blankets and pillows

in the bath before bed.

I make sure there is enough toilet roll.

I use the downstairs toilet so as not to disturb her.

I wake to find the figs eaten,

the blankets heavy with shower gel,

footprints outlined in urine.

I wonder if she has ever learned to use a toilet.

She stays for two months,

small disturbances seeping to the rest of the house.

Her hair hangs from door knobs

and windows.

She begins to leave a trail of fig pulp,

spots of yellow urine on the floor.

Flies cluster round.

I keep bleach in by bedroom,

stumbling around, half asleep,

to clean up after her.

But one day she is gone.

The traces of her disappear,

the flies leave with her.

I stop putting figs in the sink.

I start to use the upstairs toilet again.

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