by Christopher Morgan
All the strawberries you grew sparked when we’d bite into them. Must have been the vibes of summer seared inside.
Yesterday you woke me up, put a sword in my hand, and made me fight my brother in a field of sunflowers. I don’t have a brother. But he was furious at me for all the times I’d failed him. He said that I’d forgotten myself. That I no longer thought about my father. That I had traded away my anger to become something new.
Which is true. At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I twisted the blade—we have to be brutal with the ones we love.
Now done, I vowed away the sun and went home. I sat in bed with some of your strawberries, watching the sparks as I chewed.