Sally

A mangled fur ball laid in a pool of red that made the grass look even greener. This was no longer Sally, the feisty plump miniature pincher. It was something else. And her leg that laid two feet away from her was no longer a paw, but an object that made my whole body flinch as my barefoot accidentally touched it. Sally was no longer sally, but an object that made my whole body crunch.

Two Paper Bags

She chose opportunity over love. And I don’t blame her. The day after graduation she left with my dad. Two paper bags of folded clothes. And she escaped. In the car he bought her with fake wood contact paper on the sides they drove off. And I’m left wondering if she knew it wasn’t love, or if it took her 25 years to figure out what love is.