Moths This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

June 18, 2016
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We were moths
with paper wings and twitching,
racing insect hearts.

 

They’d kept us in jars for years
feeding us less
everyday,

 

until we learned to live off air alone.
It hadn’t bothered us—though
until they let us go

 

and the whole world unfolded
like an open palm,
slipping secrets into the wrinkles of time

 

and the crinkles
between our eyes
and now we too,

 

could see
life in color.
The half-melted orange

 

the horizon turns just after sunset,
the half-thawed indigo
just before sunrise—

 

the way the sunburnt sky bruised and

turned crimson
that night we climbed

 

to the top of

the theatre rafters and just sat there
as the sky

 

peeled away to reveal

ugly grey streaks like tire marks—
and the splotchy red of your cheeks

 

when you tried to hold my hand

but missed
and barely caught my thumb

 

Will I chase

my days down with them?
The memories

 

I carry

on paper wings.
Will I wear them

 

every day now,

like perfume? Drink them
greedily

 

like poison?
Even as your twitching, racing
insect heart stops beating—

 

Your blood pumps through them.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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