Soft Bellies.

My lover, my beast.

I am trying to understand myself in the same way a beast would. In the ways that I might compare myself to its underbite, and the snare and drool that leaves its body when a surge of emotion sits deep in its soft belly.

I am also beginning to understand that I am something of a beast. Foul in nature and nurtured to be scared of the world. It is on the brighter days that I will see all my flaws fall out of my insides, along with fatty, fleshy ribbons of my intestines. A little gross, maybe even sour, but it is what I know myself to be best.

Beasts with soft bellies are my favorite kind. The ones that you hold dear to your heart despite the bearing of teeth against your neck. It can be scary, but no creature on this earth is more devoted. Sometimes I wonder if I am soft enough, stupid enough to suffer at the hands of someone who will one day kill me. Someone who sees me as a threat, a trudging disaster that they must find the willpower to love until there is a glint in the shiny wet pudge of my eye that turns sharp.

Cornered by several men is the opening of the sky’s reflection into a pool of blood. It is daytime, and this is normal. There is no foul play here. The men watch for moments on end as blood becomes a mirror, crystalized on the warm, dry concrete. These men do not realize that the blood has a name. Sula, it whispers, using the last of its cells to conjure up something faint, something torn. What a beautiful name, the dying beast thinks, tears forming in the sharp corners of its eyes. The sun has cast a sullen twilight that cannot be escaped, trapping the men in the shadow of the beast.