This is not who we are. We are the ghosts we left behind, in the garden filled with fuschia flowers that look like they're made out of delicate paper. We did not tear them into pieces, we did not put them into our mouths and swallow them whole because we could not stand how beautiful they were. No, we left them alone. We left them alone to die on their own. We are the ghosts we left sitting on the wooden swings, still swinging, lightly kissing each other on the cheeks, throwing their heads back, laughing without sound, feet high up in the air, leaving footprints on the clouds, feet dug deep into the soil of the ground.