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by Anna Yang

you free the crow from between your teeth and for the first time, i don’t flinch.

i don’t look at the red on your lips, and i don’t hear the thud of dead weight on the forest ground. it’s me and you and the flapping sun peeking between tree tops to watch the show it was promised, but you told me you didn’t like what was playing, so i told you i’d rewrite the script. you hated it. you hated the cicadas and you hated the snow. you hated everything in the middle, so what season was left? the crow is dead. it won’t move. you could rip the heart out of it and stuff it full of triple As, but it still wouldn’t move.

it will never move again.