Walking around in your parent’s house, that place where you became human, you’ve been gone so long you see ghosts of yourself, back from when you couldn’t reach the cupboards, a little girl in shadow form and a blue dress, still stretching for the cups, and the stories you made up for the women in the bathroom wallpaper slice with the memories of when you were three and coated your hair in Vaseline and when you were thirteen and lay your head on the toilet seat throwing up beer and barbeque chips, time folding in on itself like a paper crane that refuses to fly.

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