I am a collector. Of butterflies in glass cases and moths in mason jars. Of tooth fairy baby teeth and hair wreaths. Of Pokémon cards and Bakugans and silly bands. Of first editions, of newspapers, of literary journals. But the newspapers. They’re screaming, and the butterfly wings flap against their pins. They’re screaming to run, to crawl, to fly. I stare at the faces in the smudged black ink, wide doe eyes and straight black hair, and they tell me I am next. They tell me that I am death. They scream at my doe eyes and straight black hair, that the collector will become the collected. Remembered by an estate sale of oddities and another smudged black-ink newspaper photograph. A name forgotten but recollected only when the butterfly wings flap. I am a collector. Not of life. A collector waiting.