get out of bed.
and the mirrored closet doors reflect the monster, all spine and fat, squeezing against too-thin skin
you have to get up.
and the blankets peel to the floor, like an overused band-aid, leaving behind the not-quite healed pus
you have things to do.
but it just curls into itself, bones into bones, flesh into flesh, a heap of unrecognizable sinew on an unmade bed
you want to live your life like this?
It does. It wants to make its home on that mattress, it wants to rot there until the too-thin skin has melted into the sheets, until mold forms under its nails and eyelids, until its legs can no longer hold it up because the muscle has atrophied beyond recognition
well, you can’t. you just can’t.
it stretches again, the squeeze of spine and fat. A leg trails down the bed, the foot flexing forwards and backwards. It skirts the edge, tracing the shape of its anguish onto the fabric. And then it’s on the ground, standing.
there we go. here we go.
and the mirrored closet doors reflect the monster holding on.