There was the one guy who told me I looked like Hawaii. I appreciate specifics. But of course you can’t see Hawaii from Oklahoma and I could only show him my sunsets when I was drunk. He dumped me over steak and potatoes in Wichita Falls. That night I saw “The Sixth Sense” with my brother and identified with the ghosts. I’ve always been a haunted house kind of girl. Some people are brave enough to explore me but it is the rare person who actually senses me and doesn’t run away screaming in abject horror. I have too many spiders in my hair. I’m too Bloody Mary in the mirror. I’m the urban legend about that highway in between Seymour and Elektra, Texas. I’m the cheerleader who died in a car wreck while sucking her football player boyfriend’s cock. I am spotted on certain October nights when the moon is full or waxing, walking along the highway bloody and deranged in my ripped maroon and white uniform with my left tit exposed and no bloomers underneath, a desiccated cock dangling from my spectral pout.

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