The narrative loves you.

The narrative loves you.

• I love it. I will tear myself to pieces for an unfathomable thing.

• No. No, I didn't want this. I never asked for this. Let me go.

• I am baring my teeth. I am digging my claws in. I dare it.

• I am holding it. Carefully, tenderly. Poor, dear, dead thing.

• I love it. I will shape it until we are one.

• It's my friend. I will hold its hands and speak its words. I am here.

• I am holding a rock. It's dripping blood. Around me, the story shatters to bits.

• Does the author?

•  The narrative. I'm not here for it.

• Oh, i was made for it. As a lamb for the slaughter, I've loved nothing so well.

• I am holding a pen. will you give me paper, as well?

• I love it. But this love is a splinter. This love is an untreated wooden bench.