I had Fluttershy in my hands and her friends on the tv.
As I sunk into the couch, I felt warm, comfortable.
The affair all too familiar and unremarkable.
To such a degree, I didn't notice the hot liquid running down my neck, pooling in my lap.
Didn't take note of the way my breath caught, the way my heart tumbled.

It wasn't until my eyes snagged on yours, did the sensations begin to rain down, pelting me.
It wasn't until my eyes fell on your bloodied mouth, did I lift a trembling hand to graze my neck. And when it came back soiled red, time slowed.

I watched red lips part to reveal sharp teeth dirtied with chunks of my flesh.
I started to wonder if your teeth were always that sharp, or if someone held you down and chipped away at the white, until all that remained were the daggers I saw before me.

As I finished my thought, you spoke,
"Why do you look so frightened?"

I wanted to spit fire back and burn you alive.
But I had quickly found that your teeth had strummed my vocal chords.
I'd later see them in a jar, treasured on your shelf, along with many other pairs, sodden in formaldehyde.

I looked down at fluttershy, now laying in my lap.
She looked to be a mirror of what I assumed my neck looked like, or lack thereof.
Covered with a heavy red that seeped in her skin and suffocated her mane.
The kindness spilling out of her, only to make room for anguish disguised as apathy.
I would never play with her again, even if I grieved for her in silence.

Now I walk around with a gaping wound that tends to spill when I'm alone.
I wish that I saw just a clawed and morbid creature in my memory, because I also see eyes filled with despair and desperation.

A creature so pitiful it crawls on its hands and knees, dragging its limbs, only to reach the peaks of escapism.
A creature so pathetic, it fumbles with lighters, melting crayons to paint pain in pastels.

Sometimes I like to pretend its eyes are filled with regret too.
But I'll never truly know, will I?