I called him Fluffy.
He slept with me every night.
Once,
He got away.
And he came back.
Just like that.
Twice,
He got away.
And he shattered the clock of my ancestors.
Just like that.
Thrice,
He ran.
Ran to my neighbors.
Stabbed them.
Buried them in their floorboards.
When he got back,
His fur was all bloody.
I promised him a bath.
He never got a bath.
Next was the gardener.
The gardener screamed.
I screamed with him,
Because Fluffy had gotten weeds on his fur.
As the clouds hung low and the moon was full,
He woke me.
Fluffy.
Fluffy was going to murder me.
I cried,
Hysterical,
Holding him to my chest
As tightly as he held the knife in his hand.
Red hot pain.
It hurt so,
So much.
His eyes were cold,
Beaded,
And staring straight at me,
At the knife in my side.
I cried even more.
I ripped Fluffy's head off.
His eyes blinked.
And the whole world spun,
And spun,
And spun.
I called him insane.
My bedsheets were red.
My skin was red.
Everything was red,
Especially Fluffy's eyes.
"Good night," he whispered.
It wasn't good.
Not at all.
YOU ARE READING
To Nowhere
Poesia|| a book of poems || This is a twisting, turning oblivion of madness. This is watching the sun touch the horizon and wishing for your hopes and dreams to appear among the stars. This is the road to nowhere.
