That spring I found myself without person: where I had been was formless and fire. I bit the dust. I gorged myself on rich, dark earth and insect eggs; I barked and rooted; I craved crayfish, the pungent tears of the moon.
You bought a pair of red feet and you danced, oh you danced me. We danced through the summer like a tree on hot coals, my new self and I, sparks in our smile and cats in our hair.
You did not last. Before the first fog of autumn your fire was gone from me. Lungs sucked to vacuum, ribs caved inwards. Bones splintered, but my fat sack of skin held, so I giggled again and said yeah, I was fine.
That winter I took the empty space and built my bones around it. I wove marrow and sinew into a carapace of you, smeared on a cosy layer of my own fat, concealed the whole dark deed in skin. Now when someone asks me a question I sometimes find myself answering in your voice, your cadence sticking to my tongue. Parasite. I have gnawed halfway through my flesh to expose you.