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Friday, March 27, 2009


Powder coats my fingers as the wing still flutters; separated from it's body, yet somehow still knowing to fight. My thumb and index pinch harder in attempt to win the battle. Surely it's got to end soon. Even the owner of the wing is beginning to slow, leaking insect guts on my mother's coffee table in a clockwise motion. My fist covers the light and casts a shadow as I raise it above my head. No emotions run through my chest, acting on pure instinct. With a crunch, the moth is crushed. I lift my sticky hand, retiring my fingers to reveal pink nail tracks dug into my palm. The gold and brown debris litter the top of oak. The wing still flutters.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

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