For six years, since I was eighteen, I have been carrying a white rat inside my left breast pocket in a long grey coat. I have paid attention to no one, just that rat.
When I ****** two **** victims who thought they loved me in two nights, the rat was there.
The rat was there when I told them to ignore the guilt and remember that no one needs to know.
The rat was there, stronger than ever when I got drunk and ****** her in the back of her partner's car right on the seat where her child usually sits whilst someone loved me from an empty bed.
The rat was there when I got drunk and threw him over a table, and when I threatened to **** myself if she did this or she did that.
My rat is currently looking at a place in the record books as the longest living rat to date, and he has survived in a coat pocket nibbling at bits of me when I give him the chance.
No one knows he is there, they just think it's me.
I tried to show someone once, but he wasn't there and we fell in love for three years, but the rat came back and now I sit staring at these walls or pacing frantically, whilst the rat continues nibbling away at the last few remaining morcels of my heart.