16 Oct

Even though I scoffed at the ghost stories girls would tell at camp, because they were silly, because they weren’t true, because I always believed in Disney but was always sometimes mostly skeptical, I was haunted for years by myself at seventeen who cried at school, who pretended to be happy so people would know that she was sad, who stuffed notes into Fireman’s locker telling him how she can’t just stop liking him, how she hated him and didn’t care, how she’d be okay if he’d only talk to her again. He walked me to my car last month after seven years of not actually speaking, after smoothies and over two  hours of conversation in which I was brave and confident and fine, really, just fine, and I drove away singing along to honeyhoney as a sort of cleansing from the mess of having killed a ghost.



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