Holes

She can pick holes in anything, she can.  Her jumper is unravelling inch by inch, leaving the woollen thread trailing behind her, limp and lifeless.  His socks need darning, after she takes her claws to them and pulls out weave and waft.  She can pick holes in anything.  She can leave herself wondering which way is up, which is down.  She prefers horizontal. And comotose. Comotose is the best, for her.

Or horizontal, and do what she does best.

So upside-down, topsy-turvy, she sits and picks.  She can't stop herself. Bared nails digging into the soil, burrowing a hole for her blue-tinged dead-weight body. Cover herself over and rot for the worms.  Where's the right and wrong for her these days? In this mixed-up life, with a mixed-up head, and nothing but razor-talons to do what she does.

And do what she does best.

She stops for a minute to darn his socks.  Patch up the mess she started.  He says "hey baby, give me your sticky saliva on my dick".  She spits at him. Arches her back, swipes at his arms with her nails, draws legions of blood in one blink-missed moment. Hisses and spits venom in his face. Or where.

Where she does it best.