Darling, I can still hear it still

The flap.

It came unstuck last night.

Again.

I told Tabitha to fix it. I told her. I really did this time.

Last time though, I forgot.

I am always forgetting things.

Like why, when I wake, my bed is always so very cold, as if a shadow walked over my soul.

And why, when I dress, each garment itches, though I had determined months previously to extract every label, every loose stitch, every imperfection.

Yet still, my skin crawls as the fine hairs of my clothing send spiders scuttling over the surface of my warped and wrinkled flesh.

But the flap was different.

I remembered the flap.

I remember how it sounded, disturbing the silence with its metallic screech, the patter of paws and the clatter of claws, stealing through my frozen heart.

Every time the strays descend, the armada lurches in my chest. The waves rise and the ocean lifts, and the spray then seals my lungs. I cry out at night, praying now for silence, when once, the sounds meant peace.

So please, darling, when you visit next, tell Tabitha to nail the flap, to bury those memories.

A broken heart cannot bear the sound, especially when it’s me.

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