myrtle

I am having an existential crisis. One in which I look longingly at my cat and wish through my soul fibers that I could switch lives with him. He sleeps in a little pile on the bed, sits in the window, roams the backyard in the evening. I may be a bad person or a bad cat owner or something, but I let him outside.

I sit in bed at night, past bedtime, and think about things like bills. I think of one of my lovers who comes like a little ghost and dissolves away, the other locked up in one of the prison boxes for the next five years. I think of the grass and try to remember the way that it smells.

But how I wish I had sharp little feet and soft fur and teeth that I could bite with.