"You must have wanted it to happen."
It went on for hours at a time.
Think of all the lies she'd have to tell on my
account.
Of course she lied. She loved me. She loved me, for hours at a time, and lied because she loved me terribly.
When he was home, everything was
purple. Or everything was
orange when he wasn't.
Her
teeth were hot and ached to grind it back inside, dark wet fur slid up between her teeth;
I never dreamed of waking up again.
When he was home, everything was
green. And nothing tasted
purple when he wasn't.
I must have wanted it to happen—it went on for hours at a time.
When she left I let my fingers grip it by the tip and hold it out, extended from the
base(every clump was soaked with pinkish
milk, pinkish milk was peppered with brown and tiny hair).
I heard it thrashing, I heard it rip the sheets. She ached to grind my dark wet fur between her teeth.
When he was home, everything was hidden in a
jar. Or everything was hiding in plain sight.
He was never home. I never dreamed of waking up again.
It went on because I loved her terribly.