Holy shit. I am a horrible person.

Big deal. We all are. Get your shit together and do your laundry so we can both feel better.

I don’t know how. Where did she go? How did she get there? How did she get back?

I know how to get there. Just follow me.

I don’t want to follow you. I don’t want you in my brain anymore.

Too bad. If you die, I die too. And then there’s no more horses.


That would be sad.

Your sad body rises as I begin to pull it off of the floor. The threads are strung through your arms and legs. I am pivoted to the ceiling above you, dragging you along. You are thinking to yourself that this metaphor is difficult to follow.

I reach your hand out and wrap it around the doctor’s. He looks at it and I can already see him turning beet red, like he does. I smile, but not through you because your face is so fucking difficult. He asks “What are you doing?” and I pull him through the eye of the needle.