she's a ghost, a colorful entity of refracted light. there's no special thing to her, but the curve of her lips and the dip of her back are burned into the brain. she carries shakespeare in her pocket and there's stars on her socks and she sits, curled in the large blue chair watching the television flicker and blur in the dark. she counts her blessings when clear rain hits the roof and makes a wish when the magnolia branch taps her window. in her free time, she sits back in the dark, her laptop light an illumination. the thoughts are too loud, mind jumbled, and she truly wonders if she was real. she blended in, a passive being, now a colorfully pale apparition. her color stained porcelain, now a colorless spirit, draining in the bathtub. no evidence of crimson or indigo or gold, a clean palette. like she believed, she never did exist.