I don’t listen to ghost stories. I believe in them too much. I think it’s better to leave them alone. I lived in a room where a girl died, no one remembers how, nor how true it is. I not-lit a bundle of rosemary in my smokeless room, telling her that I wouldn’t mess with her realm if she didn’t mess with mine. We all know I would have lost, but I thought I might as well respect her realm. She did end up respecting mine, although some things happened that she couldn’t help. See: the nights I woke “myself.”
About the Creator
Ariana GonBon
29yo bi Xicana. There's always more to write about, in more interesting ways than white men.
Instagram: @arte.con.ariana
For more stories unapproved by Vocal: colochosdeflores.wordpress.com
For entertaining tidbits: xismosaxit.com
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Seven Weeks
I knew we would fall in love the moment I shook his hand. I convinced him to join me. He was reluctant. He went quiet during my spring break, my stomach shrinking away from the inevitable. He broke it off the day after I was sleeping in his shirt. I screamed and rocked and cried and he stared as this confirmed his feelings. I couldn't taste my Nana's cooking for a week, my tongue dying in solidarity with my gut. Once I was his age, I couldn't blame him, but I could still hate him for making home food bland.
By Ariana GonBon8 months ago in Poets
📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 01/08/2026
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