Reader
I hate that ghost, that asshole who pricks me when I am minding my own business. WHICH I AM. Fuck off ghost, but it doesn’t fuck off, it pricks and pinches me though it has no pincers or prickers. How does it do it, it just does. I like to be alone but the ghost won’t leave me alone even if for a time I think I am alone. ENJOYING MY SOLITUDE. I think I am in love with my solitude. The ghost ruins everything. Maybe I should kick the ghost where it counts. Where does it count on a ghost? Nowhere counts on a ghost. Nowhere could be anywhere on a ghost. You just don’t know.
—Melissa Weinstein
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a version of this poem appeared in Exquisite Corpse.