They Eat Their Young
Maybe because I was 13 and too inexperienced to help raise a family, or maybe because your mate died a few weeks before, or maybe you felt starved that you thought you had to eat your babies. When I lifted the mesh top from the cage, there you were, pulling the flesh off of their pink and furless skin. Never have I known a mouse to eat its young, but never have I been caged, or known what it’s like to be sated by time and survival, when life becomes one long Habitrail, full of long frustratingly endless tubes, with me lurking nearby like a predator. All you can do is sit on my hand, your pointed snout already burying the very idea of what it means to live.