“Mason Jars are for Fireflies and Pretty Girls”

by Katrina Pelow

I believe

    you should die in the same place where you
    found your heart, clutched in the young, rough
    hands of the Peterson boy that lived on top of the
    hill near the tracks, working at his father’s
    factory, making the spring that switches on the
    power to the microwave oven that’s going to dig
    this business out of the ground. You should meet
    him for lunch at noon standing outside the gates
    with a basket and a smile and two ham and
    cheese sandwiches, both for him, because you’re
    too busy staring at the smooth, stained skin of
    the boy who lives on the hill where he’s keeping
    your heart in a mason jar on his nightstand,
    accepting its responsibilities but ignoring its

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