Haunted

Have you ever met a truly foreign thing?

That follows you too close,

That sends shivers down your spine,

That refuses even to let you lie?

It’s cold breath constantly

On the back of your neck,

Clawed fingers running spirals up your arm

And then trailing back down to your wrist?

Whenever it’s near you

You can see your own breath,

Miniature snakes slither through your blood vessels,

And  rabid mice claw behind your eyelids?

It makes even the shadows whither with fright

And the clouds to shield the moon from sight,

And your family watches you like you’re crazy,

Until your chest constricts and your head feels hazy?

What is that called? There is a word for it.

I believe the living call it 

Being haunted.

I’m not certain, there’s no way I could possibly know for sure,

Though I’ve always found it hard 

To let the living go.