Time to Eat

I climb out of bed hungry but I don't eat for she is sleeping and I only have things to microwave. Sometimes she sleeps in the bed by herself. Other times she sleeps on my chest. The floor has a carpet and sometimes she sleeps there and meows like a cat. I say I don't make her do this, but I'm not sure.

A truck rumbles outside and I feel my face heat up. It heats up in fear and my heart races too. Why do I notice my face heating before my heart racing? The coffee is burnt and I think I made it so I won't try to blame her. Sometimes she disappears into the corner of the room next to the bookcase I bought for five dollars. I dream of places outside this room I haven't been. She never tells me her dreams. I say, "In my dream the window frosted first and then the window frame. It frosted in the shapes of hundreds of butterflies and they began to beat their wings in unison and sing a song without words and the world cried but their tears froze to their faces." She says, "Your soul is like a dead animal on the side of the road. It is torn open with guts spilled across the road and no one but the fly-baby maggots care about your remains. You are nothing but a breading ground for the filthy and putrid bugs of this world."

I am drinking my coffee despite the fact that I think it is burnt. Sugar only lessens the bite. We are out of cream. Another truck rumbles by. My drink turns to liquid shit in my lower intestines. I take much pleasure in the overheated bathroom. I wonder if my dreams are like hers? Maybe I dream about the places she has been. I hope so. I feel so at one with her skin right now, the skin she never lets me touch without the pain first.