Somewhere in a bored housewife’s bedroom closet, I’m packed away inside little Tupperwares. The meat went bad years ago, but she still nibbles on it sometimes, usually after her man says yet another thing that makes her wonder if her life may have been different had she not been so hungry. The hunt comes to us all in fragments. There was the numbing cold; sweaty flesh dragged across sharp roots; snow so thick that if you stopped running you’d sink right through; a lake larger than life, at my world’s end; desperation so tangible it’d make your mouth water; a delicate gold chain from which the heart of desires unspoken dangled; exhaustion seeping into muscle like a lullaby; prey who knew its appeals for mercy would tear the poor thing apart. The slowing of pace, the consideration of how to be consumed might be the only way to be loved; a dream I had once, a father bouncing an unruly child on his hip, soon to be shredded by the ones who bore me. Not too long prior I put my fellow jackrabbit to slaughter, was it not fair for it to be my turn? So swallow me whole, I said, but at least permit me to martyr myself in the name of my struggle. After the end, I believe others were warned that to resist was to submit to their baser instincts. Who carries the burden of truth? Not this housewife, I can say for certain. But I’ve been rotting in here for years, far away from the place where the good turn into ghosts. Maybe this really is the fault of the cards I was dealt. I hope you’ll never be able to replicate my taste again.
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