Solo Sport

But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? - the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world - a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.

Virginia Woolf


Desire is a rat in my belly. It scampers up my throat, cutting off air. Lying down, looking up, I hear its chitinous feet clicking in my head, dislodging a memory or two, digging up the odd recollection or so. My eyes travel the cracks in the ceiling while it begins to move farther South. I feel it nibble, a glancing pain-- a darting twisting presence in my lower belly. It takes a bite and I feel a pain, pins stuck to my chest. I see a mouth run red, a throbbing hiccuping thing in its hands.

It is then that I realize, that It has my heart in its mouth.