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I’ve been trying to write for months. to pick up a pen and splatter my insides on paper. carve out the loss like its changeable and take away pains’ power. I’ve been trying to cultivate sentences out of ghosts, never realizing the crimson spilling onto the parchment was mine. I was the ghost. when I stopped seeing only the loss, the emptiness moved aside to show what’s been lingering there, it was already written gracefully, just waiting for me to find the pen which would, in turn, reveal myself.
-Allison Ryder 

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