We’ve been standing in this barn for ages,

burnt wood stench, and I’ve tried to tell you

about a thousand different ways, but

I’m not sure you can hear me over the sound.

(Squish, schlick, squelch)

You have a mind of your own.

Dismissive,

detached.

(Crunch)

Like his eyes are now:

one bulges from its socket,

one hangs from the root.

Sort of ironic, I think,

to be blinded by you.

The poor thing is twitching,

and you’re still yap yap yapping,

your knuckles are white and you’ve probably got splinters,

which I’m sure you’ll ask me to deal with later.

Whenever you decide to put down the bat,

whenever you’re sufficiently happy with his concave skull,

whenever you’re sufficiently happy with his bloodied mane.

I’m not sure why I’m still trying—

I could have stopped screaming years ago.

It’s just that there’s teeth, long, chipped, saliva pink,

hanging from his slack jaw, and

tangled in his sticky wild hair.

There’s one under my foot, too,

how did it get over here?

(Squish, schlick, squelch)

You’d love it if I joined you, 

you’ve told me before.

I watch his body sink into itself, 

the cage of his thick body crushed.

The tooth beneath my foot,

crushed. Fairy dust.

(Crunch)

There goes his bulging eye,

There goes my lunch.

I look at my sneakers,

stained yellow green, noxious,

feel the warmth of a living

stomach.

I could walk right out if I wanted,

maybe one day I will.

For now, instead I wonder,

how many times do I have to tell you?

That fucking horse

is fucking dead.

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Bridget Griffith (she/they) is a writer, student and cat lover from Moh'kinsstis/Calgary, currently based in Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. You can find her other work in Soliloquies Anthology and the Concordia University Magazine.