Bless your heart, you’ve always been a cat person.
Languorously waltzing into my life
like you’d always been the rightful owner,
covert claws painfully showing themselves when I least expected it,
leaving their mark on my hypersensitive skin;
always a bit too independent for my taste,
coming and going as you pleased,
sometimes there on the sweltering summer nights
when I would lie awake in the crumpled bed sheets,
staring at my make-believe galaxy of glow-in-the-dark star stickers
plastered on the rainwater leaking ceiling,
while you purred perrrfectly soothing whispers into my anxiety-filled ears,
easing my uselessly ruminative mind.
Other times, floating around my necrotic neurons like a pale phantom
seemingly evading all my blizzards on purpose,
so cruelly making me keep my ears open
for the pacifying sound of your returning footsteps,
even though you hadn’t left your paw prints on the marble kitchen countertop
in 4 days, 9 hours, 21 minutes and 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42 seconds.
Bless your heart, it wasn’t your fault I have an anxious attachment style!
couldn’t help it,
couldn’t change it,
couldn’t take it
I needed so much more than your hypothermic love.
No wonder I like dogs better.