you could find us in the graveyard, running along the headstones, trying to find names that matched ours. We’d drink Yoo-hoos and eat Hostess cupcakes, stuffing ourselves with unbridled sweetness until we were sick. We were sick of the living: of boys with dirty fingers that itched to be inside of us, of girls with bubble gum lips and caked on faces. We wanted to dance with the dead, drink them in, let them devour us. We wanted to find ourselves among them; we wanted something with our names on it to remind us that we were real, in one incarnation or another. The closest we ever came was a first name, or a last, never both. There was a certain shock to seeing your name etched in stone, like when you think there’s one more step than there is, and your foot plummets through the air, and for a moment, your heart stops, but then you land on solid ground again. If we couldn’t find graves with our names, we’d shout them into the wintry sky, over and over and over again, until the words lost all meaning, until we could be anyone.
Hannah Gordon is a Detroit-based writer, coffee addict, and amateur baker. She is the assistant editor of CHEAP POP. Her work can be found in Ellipsis Zine, great weather for MEDIA, WhiskeyPaper, Synaesthesia Magazine, and more. When she’s not writing, she’s hanging out with her cat and watching cooking competitions or TV shows about vampires. You can follow her on Twitter at @_hannahnicole.