my first dog died in the winter of last year. i spent the next day at home. if i had gone senile enough, i would have burned it to the ground with my own hands, with care, making sure every single splinter had fully disintegrated. what was worth living for was finally gone, and when new years arrived, we had decided that our fights were not worth not a cent more than what we had already destroyed. for the hundredth time that year, we made ourselves a promise to create a house that my dog would be proud of.Â
i swore a lie on my dog that day. i should have sworn on my own life so that he could still be here, even though i would not be. i am tired, now, of feeling like a fraud; i have not the time nor the right to regret.Â
and now, i feel my bottomless heart has finally bled out the last drop of its precious charity.
if you could speak, my angel, what truth you would say!Â
your bed has carved a fractal in our hardwood, and you can take those heavy wings off at last.
are you happy now?Â
Editors: Luna Y., Blenda Y.