We are all one missed meal away from becoming savages. One slight away from causing irreparable damage. One failure away from leaving humanity as a hermit, or a corpse. I am an old little girl. I was sitting on a wicker chair, sharing my thoughts with my mother, who never listened. I blinked once, then twice. I am an old little girl.
My arms, my face fill with a fever. My torso, my legs are undecided. There is nothing to be felt below the waist. This skin of mine smells like a woman I once knew. This is not my scent. I think I have become her, when I could not develop as it was meant. It is all an illusion, but not a safe one. It is the insanity of someone who has always demanded absolutes. It if it not good, as it rarely is, then it is bad. It is very, very bad.
The weak ones want to feel as they do when they are sleep. Count me among them. Do not trust me with the wood. It is too heavy for me. I will wait until the village is established, then I will complain of it. The beds are hard, and the laws are rough.
I have not loved much, this is true, but have I been loved?