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She materializes during any moment of stillness.
Using my vulnerability like a gateway from the afterlife, my dead sister’s ghost appears whenever l forget to keep her at bay.
If I'm caught off guard, fail to keep my mind busy, run out of weed, momentarily stop ripping at the skin around my fingernails — when there’s no people, no intellectualizing, no stinging pain, no cloud of distraction — there she is.
But the ghost of a half-formed memory who haunts the house we grew up in is not really my sister.
My sister was something I used to touch, someone who bit back, took up space, spoke out. Her ghost is only absence. She is a manifestation of unsaid words, unused clothes, the unchanged room still waiting for her. Read more...
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