He stood at three feet, two inches tall and believed the stars only cut chunks out of darkness. He believed the sun setting was to tell him it’s time to go to bed.
The boy with little mass believed anything a man worked on was metal and important. His father built machines in the basement. He believed this until he saw a man beg for change. He knew then that not everyone worked on anything.
He wondered why everything he counted was in patterns of threes. He believed this until he counted the days it took his father to return. He made tallies on a sheet, four hundred and twenty-seven, before throwing away the paper.
With freckled eyes, the boy thought anything beautiful was art. He thought nothing beautiful could hurt. He believed this until the day a stranger handed him a bouquet of foxgloves and his body curled into itself.
About Morgan Carter
MorganCarter is a recent graduate of Kennesaw State University’s MAPW program. Her research is in the marginalizing language around those with substance use disorder. This is her first creative writing publication.