Paper Boys by Kyle Hemmings
The boy she wants is made of paper. After five false starts, lines too thin around the edges, she cuts along the outline. His eyes are too big for her to contain herself. She names him Mamoru and her head is daffodil-May-Pull. Outside the long summer streets, she imagines children with runny noses and explanations meant to elude adults made of starch and dime-store talcum powder. She opens the window, pitches Mamoru to the silent applause of air, just so she can run down five flights of stairs to catch him. This paper boy, she thinks, has got a soul. It's the only reason why he can float. But she's jealous of other girls, girls not like her, girls made of paper but with no souls. They will tear up Mamaru, shred him, and toss him to the garbage where he will die under pretentious love letters, never sent. She holds Mamaru by the light and pokes a hole through him. It's the only way she can conquer her fear of darkness, of losing him, of forever being a light sleeper.
Magazine of poetry and art