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i don’t believe ghosts are real.

i believe they come back as mosquitoes.

at least the ones that crave revenge,

but who could blame them with their stories left without end?

it’s a curse to be a daughter

because then i’ll become my mother.

we both have the same sweet blood

that sticks to us like mud.

snap! clap! laugh!

how many swats does it take to be alive?

yet, still, i can’t deny

that i scratch away at hives.

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