stories from under the pillow

I concur, for a while I have been dumb. Mute as a bat. I hate microphones.

I remember the day I followed a little mouse all the way to your house. The cold tiles on the ground kept me awake, but how difficult it was for the petite mouse to climb the stairs. The crisp moonlight was scattered in the corridor, and I never told you but I hated those curtains with their washed out floral ornaments. I tried really hard not to step on my chaperon.

For your own sake you should have left me curious and seditious longing behind the door. I should have resented trusting the abstract idea of ‘what’s behind the door’.

I drank you and it wasn’t enough, I drank more and I felt sick, I puked and I wanted some more.

I leave and I find a burgundy bottle under my pillow filled with you.