In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.

I need to finish this scarf/shawl/blanket thing so I can start something for Emma- a hat, maybe, or a sweater for her stuffed elephant.

I open a paperclip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this. A whimper, a peep? I draw little window cracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting.

If I run or breathe too deep, the cheap stitches holding me together will snap, and all the stickiness inside will pour out and burn through the concrete.

In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.

Because I am still a little girl who believes in Santa and the tooth fairy and you.

Gym should be illegal. It's humiliating.