The ghost stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes, red and burnt from too much crying. She thinks to pinch herself, because this can't be her (after)life. It must be a nightmare and she is desperate to wake up.
Deep breaths in and out. (in, out, in, out, in, out) She wipes her tears away, puts the reddest lipstick she owns on and slips her grandmother's amethyst ring onto her finger. Strength arrives in many forms, from the most unexpected quiet corners.
Survive today, then tomorrow and then the next, and next, and next. Time never stops, not even for your tears. So pick, pick, pick yourself up little ghost,
and live.
And all your wings have fallen down
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