My Ghost

My haunt would trail a mane
of stringy, red curls, flecked gray.
Her eyes pale blue or slate.
Her skin hollowed by hate.

She might stalk me not for what I
had done but for what I failed to do.
No moans or howls—just a brew
of razor stares and hopeless silence.

Seeking an answer in books, I might
find my options in tales of fright.
In beloved Poe, the haunted often die.
In Lovecraft, the hunted think around death.

You never beat a ghost on its home ground.