Mom, why am I not like other kids? / Because you are special. / Are you special? / I am if you think I am. / Mom, what are you made of?
I felt for a pulse — but couldn’t find one. Wanted to say dead volcanoes and lava flows, bit my tongue, said cheese.

Bojana Stojcic writes prose and poetry, and has her words published here and there. If she could fly right now, or ever, she’d most likely head for the moon.