​down the green green hill
by the dirt dirt path
through the stone stone gate
past the snarled snarled hedge
round the still still lake
in the grim grim shade 
of the gnarled gnarled tree
lies a cold cold grave.
it’s yours.

it’s yours.

​This is a ghost story.
It is also a true story.
There are some frightening images.
And an ending that makes them worth it.

When I was young, I felt normal.
Nothing about me seemed out of the ordinary.
I wore pink and ribbons in my hair
I was seen and not heard
and went to church on Sunday.
Just like you.
I played with dolls and dress up and make believe
And stepped on legos in the basement.
And was afraid of the dark.
Just like you.
One day, my sister trapped a tiny spider under a cup 
And while I screamed “KILL IT”
She gently placed it outside in the sunlight. Of a crisp autumn day.
And I screamed “WHY DIDN’T YOU KILL IT”
and wore pink and went to church on Sunday
and learned the pledge of allegiance
and felt mostly normal.
And the shadowed things inside me sharpened their teeth.
As I grew up, I felt mostly normal.
Mostly.
I celebrated Columbus Day, and went to church on Sunday,
and pretended I was interested in chasing boys on the playground,
and stepped on small spiders because I was scared.
Just like you.
And the shadowed things inside me licked their lips and sharpened their teeth,
my what big teeth you all have
and swallowed me down whole.
We’re in the belly of the beast now, the very witching hour of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world
facts made of fictions and fictions spun like so much fools gold
look at the birdie, look over here
while the sharp teethed beasts eat your life, your soul, your future over your shoulder
and we kill each other on their command, so they don’t have to
a graveyard of frightened things, stamping on each other’s happiness like so many
young children crying over the tiniest spider
but i’m normal, i feel normal
just like you
i’m just like you
i can put pink ribbons in my hair and dissociate through church on sunday
while a pastor thousands of miles away screams murder on my head in the name of nothing
and an army of conservative ghosts flood the frontlines 
to give you orders and tell you where the enemy is - it’s them! it’s there! it’s you!
and i wear pink and play with dolls and kill the beautiful frightening things that
threaten a victory without a fear
a victory without conquerors
just a moment where we stand and i see you
and you see me
and you realize
i am just like you.
i am just like you.
and soft! i scent the morning air
the sun rises.

And the conservative ghosts which once haunted the shadowed parts of my life
Proved to be weak and insignificant, fearful, trembling things
Lies told to a frightened, grasping child
only ghosts, only specters that died shrieking in the sun
And were replaced by something brave, authentic, warm, substantial, full-fleshed
Something like this.

these days, i don’t feel normal.
i feel like me.
i wear whatever color i feel like.
and sleep in, my cat curled warm on my chest on sundays.
and i will live.
i will be happy.
just like you.