Page 34 of What Rough Beast

She stops when she sees me, comes to the desk, her gaze wandering over me. My breath is still coming in light, sharp wheezes, and I’m sure I’m white as a sheet. But when Widow speaks, it’s the practical that takes precedence.

“Your car is covered in bird shit,” she says, taking a seat on the stool.

“Yeah, I told you,” I say, gasping for breath. “Birds hate me.”

“Humans hate me,” Widow says, nodding toward the door. “That one just took it out on a turtle. And birds don’t hate you. That’s anthro—”

“—pomorphizing. Yeah, I know,” I say, getting my breath back.

“That rule’s in place for a reason,” Widow says. “You start thinking animals are humans, consider them friends, you make mistakes. Maybe worst thing that happens is you get your feelings hurt. Maybe you get killed. Depends on the day.”

“Not much different from humans,” I tell her, and she considers that.

“I told you before, animals aren’t humans, but humans forget we’re animals. Most of us, anyway. Others keep their beast closer to the skin, let it out when they want to. Difference between us and animals is humans kill for sport, for the surge of power.”

I shudder, imagining the power someone else had over me. A boy standing above me in the dark, my underwear around my ankles, his beast let loose. And me, the domesticated one, all I did was lie still in the dirt. Damage was done to me, and in return I ate my own words and hid like a dying animal, finding a dark corner to lick my wounds.

“You okay?” Widow asks, and I shake my head, because at Restoration Acres, we tell the truth, even when it’s ugly. The world crushes the weak and the lame, and Widow looks this reality in the face, unblinking.

“No,” I tell her. “I haven’t been okay for a long time.”

“Me either,” Widow says.

Outside, the last of the birds move away in a black cloud, their raucous song dissipating as the sun streams in through the open door, where turtle blood is drying in streaks.

Twenty-Two

Micah

There’s an estimate that the average American commits three crimes a day without even knowing it. From cutting off mattress labels to jaywalking, there are silly reasons why every one of us should be in jail right now. I know exactly what my crimes are, they are completely valid, and at least if I was in jail I wouldn’t have access to my phone and the eternal temptation of naked girls. I’m also trying hard not to be weird about burnedoutgirl by cruising her old posts, but in the end, I decide poetry is more forgivable than Jerkoff Dropbox.

WOUNDED

I am

A wounded animal.

Hit by a car