Because without it, we're animals.

I fear for the feelings that you could make me feel and I hate you for that. I mean, I want to hate you for that, but how could I. I'm just waiting for you. waiting for you to leave me.

The more she grows with age, the more she fears the dark. The demons and the strangers that lurk upon those black floors, once upon a time inconceivable, are now alive. She has seen the monsters of this world, there is no bound to her imagination. As children, we were all towering courageous heroes. But how small we have grown to be.

The more she grows with age, the more she fears the beetles and the click of hard brown wings against cement tiles. She imagines them as they live off her flesh, as they dance victoriously in her gut, in her lungs, in her pores. She tears at her bloody arms and breaks through skin and scab desperately, savagely because she feels the roughness of their abdomens and legs on her body and she can't rid herself of their legs and the crawling. No matter how hard she washes, no matter how violently she thrashes.

The more she grows with age, the more she fears the liars. All of them filthy liars. The writers, the poets. Liars. Such scorn she has for them, that they speak so simply of love. The heart is a diagram, it is a theory, an explanation to which we take breaths of life and live. The heart is but a dirty fist wrapped in blood. Stop lying to me. You cowards, you writers. You liars.

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