by Sida Li
Was eleven, maybe twelve, listening to deer wondering where the tulips went, staring at moths tapping their wings against the windowpane. Told the deer that the tulips died in the frost, asked the moths what it’s like to live without a heart. Turned off my lamp and they answered with a yearning for light, so I switched on a flashlight and led them to a hole in the screen.
Found they didn’t fit.
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