gothicsushi

 We share the blueberries Mama left for us, the juice staining our fingers and our lips. We eat them with the solidarity that figure skating partners would give their perfect souls for, and in the ecstasy of our union stained with blues and purples like the hues of the skies just before sunset, we are content. It is 1984 and we are barely able to comprehend anything but each other. "You need friends," Mama whispers with her venom-like breath and her love belied by her lack of understanding. She does not understand. We have friends. We are friends. The simple harmony and the symmetry that breaks only with the soft marring of birthmarks on my