I think I love myself again. 

Which feels odd to say,

ever since that March afternoon many years ago, 

the afternoon where i met the Silly Little Ghost Girl, 

who always told me otherwise.

She dressed in jeans and oversized shirts which made my 

pinecone hat and rainbow silks that danced in the wind 

melt off of me in shame,

while i reluctantly put on the same thing She wore.

She sat infront of my reflection in the old mirror on my wall saying 

It was for the better that i didnt see myself,

As she put skin-coloured paint on my face and 

charcoal on my eyes. 

When i admired my mousy freckles and straw coloured hair in 

dirty pudldes on the street,

She spat at my feet

and push me in them. 

When i was sad She sat with me in the in the dark moonless nights under the blankets, 

telling me stories to brighten my mood,

the same ones people would spread about me at school which burned like a wildfires. 

Just as bright.

Those same moonless nights, we stayed up late 

Juggling razors, and painting portraits with my blood, 

eating pills off of pharmacy counters when we got hungry. 

Getting lost for hours scrolling through the bright pixels of a screen.

Nowadays i don't see Her much, 

the goosebumps on my arms produced by Her voice are no longer there.

The skin-coloured paint on my face and charcoal on my eyes have worn off and

I made a new pinecone hat and put back on my rainbow silks that dance in the wind. 

Which is why it feels so odd to say,

I think i love myself again.