Smother
I am no fun to play with.
I am the kid at the playground who will push a child off the jungle gym.
I am the girl who cries wolf when the teacher didn’t actually touch me.
I am the boy who throws punches.
I am the teenager who shoots cocaine because I like the adrenaline.
The twenty year old who cooks meth because not only do I like the idea of balancing the line of death, but I like making other’s play the game too.
I am the grim reaper, I am Satan, I am the person who gets locked in solitary confinement only to walk down death row.
And this silly Panther, this compassionate emotional mess of a cat wants to play mommy?
I watch her react, I watch her poor her soul and turn into some overwhelming whiny runt. I watch her talk, and talk, and talk.
Does she ever shutup?
Easy, Turkish.
“My my, what a chatter box. Save the mommy story for someone who cares, dear.”
At least you know who your mother is.
It isn’t easy to threaten me, all her green eyes do is bore my attention span. I shift, morphing myself into my equine appearance, Turkish still looming in an eerie coil. I watch her, staring at her as she changes as well. She is annoying, she is nothingness. In my mind, she is not here.
I am, after all, here for the pup. The very naïve, damaged, vocal little pup.
“Awh, how sweet. You are such a motherly-love. Do you feel better now, doggy? Now that someone is protecting you?” It is a mock, of course. The stallion seems fully capable of handling himself. It should almost be an insult that he is mothered in such an obvious way.
I can tell they are both reactive. One is a meddling female suffering obvious mother issues (enough to randomly bring it up in daily conversation, I may add), and the second a babbling brook of aggression and animosity.
I wish I had chosen better company, but now it is all too entertaining and dramatic to leave.
Turkish, quietly with an aura of frustration floating from his air, slithers up my neck like a lace. Around my chiseled curves and well established muscles until he is back in the comfort of my neck, coiling himself around like a thick knitted scarf.
Imbeciles
Oh now, Turkish.
I would rather eat a frog.
Hush, Turkish.
I would rather pick slimy slimy worms, than risk the clearly contagious emotional imbalance they seem to wear.
You crotchety man.
I have good taste.
I don’t tell him where I am from. I don’t acknowledge his shift in state at all—suddenly blossoming from mad man to conversationalist. Instead, with the consistent bickering of Turkish floating in my mind, I nod to them both.
“Perhaps another time things can go smoother. Or not. I have my bet on not.”
