Decisions of a Dæmon in Love.

My love was a gloved hand: my leather bedding. Then bat split me. They buried me in the dirt. Played the seventh inning stretch as they patted the mound. I could feel the water tap against the surface, trickle into my shallow grave. From this water, as I understand it now, I expanded into my current form. From the dirt I learned the ways seeds grow, the way roots reach around the soil, form a family with it. A root made its way to my grave and I dug myself out, stashed a few seeds in my mouth to keep them nourished, and from them buds sprouted. That’s how I’ve come to have these daisies, not that you care.

I watch the boy as he sleeps, his hand buried between his knees. I watch his back rise and fall with his breaths. I never had any use for air. My stitches contained everything. There’s pendants hanging around the room. There’s an image of me in the boy’s hand on his wall. I think that’s me, we all looked so alike. I used to think I’d be taken away with family when we went to the park, but somehow he located me, placed me back inside glove.

I want blood, which is new. Thirst. I’d never experienced anything but feel of grip and touch of air. Breaking through air into mitt. I’m thirsty for blood I made against Mikey Showalter, the way his knee opened up and ended on me. I absorbed it then. Maybe that’s where I’m from? I’d like to know. I’d like to know what to do with these flowers. I wonder if he sees me down here.

I wonder where you are, too. I wonder if you're even sorry. I wonder if I'd mean anything to you now, looking this way, with these... appendages. I miss you. I hope I left a mark.