Imagine a devouring in reverse. From the bowels they surge, feet undigested and through starlit entrails. Their laughter is new and quick while limbs are marinated drunk. So close to this mouth, and yet it stays empty, salivating.
It’s not fair. Bad, bad girl. It’s not fair to be left hungry and second choice with a foul memory. This house trusted a petty thing, a form so beneath it, and yet she must be reminded. She must fix what is wrong.
This is your home, the windows choose to rattle. Look at me.