Cloe Watson † Alone

Alone

I remember the Velveteen Rabbit and his sick boy because I’m a sick girl, and I just saw a black sky, bold in its purple shadow. But velvet can be any color, and I’m a woman, was a woman when I crawled to the bathtub, stopping just short to pass out in child’s pose, my nose to the floor, hands pinned against my chest. When I woke my feet were wet, and in calling for my rabbit, my ears grew a bit longer and the tiles beneath me began to sprout green with a grief I’ve always known.