by Candace Hartsuker

Girls who break hearts conjure boys out of thin air, palm them in their hands like cards in a deck then leave them souvenirs: a pink bra with a rip at the seam, a high heeled shoe, the sole worn away, a line of blurry pictures ripped from a photo booth stall, their faces cut in half. Girls who break hearts nestle boys’ fears close to their throats, wear them on a chain, collect and add until their heads sag from the weight. Girls who break hearts latch boys’ dreams inside boxes, then panic, thinking they have swallowed the key. Girls who break hearts string boys’ souls on bald branches, listen to boys’ hearts clink against one another, glimmering like leaves.

Candace Hartsuyker is a first-year fiction student in McNeese State University’s MFA Program. She has been published in Foliate Oak, Foxglove Journal, The Ginger Collect, Former Cactus, Anti-Heroin Chic and Bending Genres Journal.