They hung her name on a pink balloon,
said she turned eight again this afternoon.
The candles hissed when the cake was lit,
and the wallpaper peeled
where her shadow sits.
We sang off-key as the lightbulbs popped,
and the clown from the east wing finally stopped.
The dolls in the cupboard clapped on time,
and the party favors bled in rhyme.
It’s the birthday party
for the dead girl in the wall,
where she giggles through the drywall
and answers when you call.
She likes her cake with screams on top,
and blows out the lights before we stop.
Her gift this year was a brand-new name,
wrapped in ribbons and constant shame.
She unwrapped it slow with ghost-white grace,
then wore it wrong on her paper face.
The music box crooned her favorite tune,
while the walls moaned soft
like a haunted room.
And when she asked to play outside,
the vent blew cold and the candles died.
They say she never lived at all,
but her drawings pulse behind the hall.
Crayons bite and mirrors smear,
and her giggle means she’s very near.
Now every year on this cursed date,
the ward sings low and seals the gate.
We eat the cake, but not too deep–
or she’ll climb back out
from where she sleeps.