Haunt

By: Charlotte Shum

She doesn’t want to see him again.

Just a whiff of his old cologne sends her spiralling back into flashes of scarves in the summer, of sunglasses in the winter, of the sense of dread that ripples up her spine every time she hears a mention of his name.

Every ounce of logic she has screams at her that he’s gone—she’s safe.

Yet the scars along her wrist tell her otherwise. Almost like chains entrapping his eternal ghost to the remnants of her fragmented soul.

Whispering sweet nothings in her ear; wringing her wrists as phantom pain builds.

Haunting her.