xxxviii. ghost

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I will wear my rusty nightgown—blood dripping down my thigh. Shoulder blades slice through my skin like angel wings but something about the way I breathe—shudder and tremble as you touch the lace—is only demonic. Salty bruises on my cheek, blisters on my lip—hollow eyes that see nothing. Skeletal prayers fascinate me, and I drift away from your hands as you reach for me. Have you forgotten I am not real?

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