no one lives here but me

which was, of course, not remotely the plan,

but it is a blessing, to be the ghost that I am.
I keep my own metronome, wake up at twelve
and fall asleep as the birds start singing.

sometimes I don’t leave for days.
proof of life is required for the friends
who live in my phone, their likenesses
liquid-crystal, their words lowercase:
you dissolve so fast, so easily. we fear.
have you gotten the sun on your skin today?

to which I say not yet, dutifully open the door,
do a languid lap of the tar-black parking lot;
retreat back inside to lick my lovely wounds,
massage new knots and grievances from myself.

at night, I wait by the front door when it rains,
and grinning, let it swing upon its hinges,
a great-gaped mouth, wide-yawning to the world,
an invitation to any wild one who dares:
don’t you want to be haunted, too?
come step inside, and watch me disappear.

C. C. Rayne is an author of speculative fiction, specializing in all things weird, wonderful, and queer. Most recently. C. C. is the author of The Suture Cycle, which can be purchased digitally or in print from dogleech books. C. C.'s short stories can be read in such places as The Razor, HAD, Demons & Death Drops, TRANS RITES, and The Deeps, and C. C.'s poetry can be read in such places as Strange Horizons, Rough Cut Press, Eye To The Telescope, and moth eaten mag. You can find C. C.'s work and writing at ccraynewrites.carrd.co.