The Haunt

When I hover my hand over
an item of clothing I haven’t used
in some time
I wait.
Hoping that what doesn’t arise from the thing
is an eight-legged specter
a pale ghost
veiled in lace
adorned in flowing gown
or whatever such a haunt might manifest
and stab violently at me
taking what little innocence I might hide.
As if selecting an outfit wasn’t
torture enough.

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