You thought someone was living inside the walls, laughing at you. Staring at you. Talking about you. You tore at your face until craters bled. Kept telling me something was hiding underneath your skin, crawling with fleas. When I woke up, found your side of the bed empty/cold, I thought I would discover your body still, blue like the pills you crush into dust and breathe. Except I found you very much alive — wild, sweating, and wide-eyed like an animal rabies-bitten. I looked at you and saw someone/thing else, pupils so dilated the moon could pass through them. I begged you to come back. To come back down. To come back to bed. To come back to me. You howled at the night sky, retreated further into the woods. — ANDREA LAWLER
Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. She is the founder of two non-profits: Keeping Emmons County Clean & Frankie’s Feline Sanctuary. She currently lives in North Dakota with her three cats.