We were never going to be enough for each other,

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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