I spent all day yesterday chewing on this bone. This little, tiny, slivered scrap.
It came from somewhere. Maybe someone. I don't know. I found it, and it became mine. I furrowed it's length with my claw. I scooped out the moist redness of fresh marrow, I licked it clean, polished with my ichor.
It's sharp, you see from the points of my teeth to the points of the bone.
i'm resourceful. I'm using it. Using it to get more bones.
I tried fishing with it. The fish weren't interested. High and mighty arrogant piscine snootnose crookweasel wetted quicksilver swimming lunch. I like to eat fish. I like to pull their bones from my insides. I used to not like fish, thought I'd choke you see. That's not a problem anymore. Not at all.
I spent my time by the lake worrying that if I caught one and ate it that it's tiny glistening bones would work their way from my throat, to my flesh, to my lungs, my bowels, the inner chambers of my heart. And I worried you see. I would wake by the shores of the lake, sweating and panicked that some day, some horrible morning, I would look at myself in the morning mirror, and see the bones of all the fish I've ever eaten slowly sliding out of m flesh. A garden of translucence. Thorns of the body's inner flowers adorning me like a crown of shame.
But I'm okay. I'm okay. I don't worry anymore. Not since it happened. Now, now I lay their bones inside me, filling my empty cavities with tiny rattles and subtle clicks.
I have a clockwork assembly of inner history. All from donors whose fate I had a share in, teachers and students one and all in my newfound classes of existence.
And this bone is my favorite.
I have been chewing on it all day.
It came from somewhere. Maybe someone. I don't know. I found it, and it became mine. I furrowed it's length with my claw. I scooped out the moist redness of fresh marrow, I licked it clean, polished with my ichor.
It's sharp, you see from the points of my teeth to the points of the bone.
i'm resourceful. I'm using it. Using it to get more bones.
I tried fishing with it. The fish weren't interested. High and mighty arrogant piscine snootnose crookweasel wetted quicksilver swimming lunch. I like to eat fish. I like to pull their bones from my insides. I used to not like fish, thought I'd choke you see. That's not a problem anymore. Not at all.
I spent my time by the lake worrying that if I caught one and ate it that it's tiny glistening bones would work their way from my throat, to my flesh, to my lungs, my bowels, the inner chambers of my heart. And I worried you see. I would wake by the shores of the lake, sweating and panicked that some day, some horrible morning, I would look at myself in the morning mirror, and see the bones of all the fish I've ever eaten slowly sliding out of m flesh. A garden of translucence. Thorns of the body's inner flowers adorning me like a crown of shame.
But I'm okay. I'm okay. I don't worry anymore. Not since it happened. Now, now I lay their bones inside me, filling my empty cavities with tiny rattles and subtle clicks.
I have a clockwork assembly of inner history. All from donors whose fate I had a share in, teachers and students one and all in my newfound classes of existence.
And this bone is my favorite.
I have been chewing on it all day.
