There are a handful of tiny mice living in my home
Gray, like ash
Spilling from holes in the walls and abundant cracks in the foundation
They have been gnawing away at me
For far too long now
Yet, I allow them to continue
Out of pity
And a bottomless loneliness that consumes me

At times, I have loved each of these mice
So deeply
Given them my everything
Taken their companionship with open arms
Fed them, held them, existed quietly amongst their filth

But recently, I feel they may not be as beneficial to my well-being as once thought
I find myself more often than not
Aggressively snarling
Perpetually weeping
Continuously irritated
And utterly defeated as they scurry back and forth over me
Again and again and again  

They tear apart my pallid flesh
Pry away tufts of matted fur for their little nests
Nibble away at minuscule, almost unnoticeable parts of me
Turning my bones to a chalky dust that fills the air and makes it impossible to breathe
I am merely a ragged shadow of myself, now

But finally, I crack
Bare my sharpened teeth
Furiously grind my jaw
I claw and claw and claw
Until I open my eyes
Glance around
And see that I’m the only one making myself bleed

Just like that, they scramble away in terror
Only returning every once in awhile
To peek through the sagging drapes of my windows
And under the sill of my doors
But never again entering

I rest peacefully in complete silence for the first time in years
Splayed across the barren floor, alone
And desperately wishing I would have realized sooner
That mice are easily scared by wolves.