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When everything is too heavy, and my soul feels like it’s gasping for air, jazz finds a way to make the ghosts in my chest dance.

Sometimes my emotions are as alone as a hotel elevator at 4 o’clock in the morning.

Sometimes my body is vacant land waiting to be claimed by it’s previous owner.

Sometimes my mind is buried in the weight of the existence of everyone who has ever said they loved me, and taken it back.

The best thing they did for me after they left was continue to spell my name correctly in their apology letters.

In Michigan, a bartender told me I seemed like a jazz girl.

For that moment, the ghosts in my chest stopped fighting, and felt understood.

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