which we both knew. So instead we
skirted each other’s questions. Laughed
at odd times in lime green and orange. Sometimes
we held hands and stared at the
sun until everything burned
white. Once we collected dusty purple moths
in an empty peanut butter jar, then removed
them delicately one at a time and crushed them
with our fingers. The lavender powder from their wings
stuck under my fingernails. Later,
we tried reading each other’s poetry. Mine
always had too many colors. It clashed. He was
colorblind, anyway. I never
read other people’s poems, myself, but I made
one exception. My suspicions were confirmed:
It was about me, and us, and the moths
and the sun and the peanut butter jar. So I knew
the game was up, had been up for a long time.
When I type poetry, my fingernails are still stained purple.
AnnaLeah Lacoss
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