you are not pretty, and you never will be--scratch the air in desperation one more time, one last sharp intake of breath is the cure for sure. the dog in my head whimpers; there is nothing you can do to fix this. isn't it enough to be wanted? does it even matter who the nails belong to when there's nails in your back, claw marks reaching like shadows, reaching and stretching and writhing forever and ever like your untied shoelace. the dog barks again; there is nothing you can do to fix this, nothing that isn't disgusting and fatal.

in sunlight she turns corners--in myths they call her old hag. when night comes, i refer to her affectionately as 'Something Terrible Is Happening To Me And I Can't Sleep Or Eat And Never Know What's Real And What Isn't'--she makes me yell this to her when we ****. she wheezes and scratches and ****** the bed, laying dead like roadkill, nothing left that isn't rot. when i'm just about to ***, she screams 'What's Wrong With You? Is Nineteen Years Not Long Enough To Heal? If You're Still Weak Now You Always Will Be'. after this, if i am lucky, she won't need to narcan me. when i wake up, she is back to floating in corners, kissing the edges of my vision, covered in claw marks, just where i like her best.