by Rhian Sasseen on November 29, 2012
I dream of wolves these days. I dream of men these days. I dream of nothing, only teeth.
The fur found its way studded through my fingertips.
There was a cry. In the corner of the room stood the crib. In the corner of the crib lay the baby. Red was the mouth and stubbed were the teeth; the child cried louder, louder still. Nothing, said the mother; the mother said nothing. A beautiful baby. A child, a beautiful child -
The baby, that was me.
The mother, that was me.
Sometimes it is difficult to remember the difference between the child and the wolf.
Tell me that you believe me. Tell me that you know that I remember nothing – that I did nothing – was nothing: a void. Years ago – too many years, the days of teeth, the days of fur, the days in which I was a girl – once, I desired only space, and room to grow. Now? Now I am content to be only the air, invisible as glass, transparent as a sieve.
Pass through me.