Tonight I resurrected the dead.

Tonight I decided to write something. I decided to finish a poem, and a secret guide on how to raise the dead. I wrote about how I found the boy I thought had been killed all those years ago. That boy that had been forced to conform, who traded in cowboy boots and adventures for pink tee-shirts and Paris bedsheets. I let him speak, and I showed that I had been a ghost for my entire life. That I'd been lying in a grave with a name that never fit me, and that I tried to give myself name that I thought would make them accept me.

I wrote about how that boy changed my name, gave me the right one. The name I'd yearned for, that made me feel alive. I resurrected myself, and with that I resurrected him. Now I'm trying to get used to being alive, and learning to heal in the process.

But I could never share it with anyone. After all, wouldn't they find me insane if I said I could raise the dead?