She feels more animal than human. She hunts, she catches, she hibernates, she even goes camouflage sometimes. She is attracted to others who seem more animals than men. She once slept with a man who was covered with a full coat of fur. It tickled her skin as he hovered over her, trying to find his way. She remembers it being more pleasant than she had expected. Until then, she had thought herself more of a naked-mole-rat loving kind of girl. But of course, there are exceptions to everything.
Today she sits perched on the edge of the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest. She is thinking. She sees a small cockroach scurry across the cieling near the wall opposite her. She sits back and watches it, considering her options for it's demise. She is going to sit and wait for it to come closer. She watches it and wonders how long it will take, and how long she will last, before she loses control of her urge to kill it. Once she lets go, it will be dead.
There is an odd noise in the room. It's what it might sound like in a mother's womb, she thinks. There is a slow and steady beat, muffled by a constant whirring and swishing. It's sort of calming, until she wonders if it is real or only in her head.
Once the prey is close enough, it will be a simple kill. She leans toward simplicty these days. She is tired of working too hard for everything. She has put out too much energy, into the words she has chosen, the friends she has tried to keep, the men she has loved. Too much. Looking back at it makes her want to puke. Or spit up a hair ball, of all the wasted efforts. It got her nowhere anyways.Trying to be so smart, or so complicated, or so fancy, or so lovable, or so strong, or so patient. All of it unnecessary. She needs to be nothing to anyone anymore.
If she were to meet her old self now, she would be so annoyed. It'd be like meeting someone you can't stand and then realizing that the things you don't like about them are actually reflections of things you don't like about yourself. Like a mirror of truth. She swats at her relflection these days.
Before she can blot out the bug, the doorbell lets off its annoying siren. Shrill sounds are so rattling. So are cheerful perky and unpredictable sounds, that mean, your personal-thought-world is being interupted.
Someone is here, behind the door. Probably to save her soul by way of Jahaova, or to sell her a stale chocolate(coco oil product, barely digestable) bar for way too much money. Or maybe it's the drunk guy from next door who can never seem to find his own apartment after his binge. She debates whether to open the door or not. Face the enemy on the other side, or face the noise of the relentless door screams. She wonders why she gets paralyzed like this. After a minute of staring at the door, she goes back to the sofa, and looks around. She can't find the cockroach.
Today she sits perched on the edge of the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest. She is thinking. She sees a small cockroach scurry across the cieling near the wall opposite her. She sits back and watches it, considering her options for it's demise. She is going to sit and wait for it to come closer. She watches it and wonders how long it will take, and how long she will last, before she loses control of her urge to kill it. Once she lets go, it will be dead.
There is an odd noise in the room. It's what it might sound like in a mother's womb, she thinks. There is a slow and steady beat, muffled by a constant whirring and swishing. It's sort of calming, until she wonders if it is real or only in her head.
Once the prey is close enough, it will be a simple kill. She leans toward simplicty these days. She is tired of working too hard for everything. She has put out too much energy, into the words she has chosen, the friends she has tried to keep, the men she has loved. Too much. Looking back at it makes her want to puke. Or spit up a hair ball, of all the wasted efforts. It got her nowhere anyways.Trying to be so smart, or so complicated, or so fancy, or so lovable, or so strong, or so patient. All of it unnecessary. She needs to be nothing to anyone anymore.
If she were to meet her old self now, she would be so annoyed. It'd be like meeting someone you can't stand and then realizing that the things you don't like about them are actually reflections of things you don't like about yourself. Like a mirror of truth. She swats at her relflection these days.
Before she can blot out the bug, the doorbell lets off its annoying siren. Shrill sounds are so rattling. So are cheerful perky and unpredictable sounds, that mean, your personal-thought-world is being interupted.
Someone is here, behind the door. Probably to save her soul by way of Jahaova, or to sell her a stale chocolate(coco oil product, barely digestable) bar for way too much money. Or maybe it's the drunk guy from next door who can never seem to find his own apartment after his binge. She debates whether to open the door or not. Face the enemy on the other side, or face the noise of the relentless door screams. She wonders why she gets paralyzed like this. After a minute of staring at the door, she goes back to the sofa, and looks around. She can't find the cockroach.
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