Read by Grace Cookey-Gam
My lover used to bring me birds. He caught them with his quick claws, pouncing and ripping off their heads with his sharp, feline teeth, their feathery bodies bleeding into the carpet. I felt triumphant, a queen. He just wanted to please me.
‘I love you,’ he purred and brushed against my legs, his fur soft as syrup. I looked at him then, lustfully, at his whiskers and claws, at the gliding machinery of his hips and spine, his innate desire to kill. I desired him as animal, and man. Both, at once.