by J. M. Rodriguez
part 1.
the dead rabbit in the courtyard has been there for 3 days now, withering beneath the shelter of a
maple tree. the bugs have gotten to her. flies and ants and whatever else could wriggle itself a
home in her rotting meat and still-wet fur. there are knots in my stomach. it feels like i should
know better. it doesn't change anything. this guilt, it just sits unmoving, like it doesn't know
where else to go.
i know her, it feels like. i know her.
part 2.
my college boyfriend never heard me when i said no. he grabbed at my body like it was
everything he ever wanted.
have you noticed? in the dark, everything turns one color. i picture those nights dark blue. please,
he says. in the dark, please shoots out like a silver arrow, while no fades to black so that you
have to squint to make it out.
he wasn't seeing me. he was just feasting. i was rabbit stew. cold in the middle, sure, but still
rabbit stew.
part 3.
after a week, her carcass is removed from beneath the tree. the grass is left in the shape of her.
this feeling inside me never goes away. it just sits. it just sits.
About the Author:
J. Rodriguez is a writer based in Minneapolis, MN. They have previously been published in Magpie Zine and Chanter. Currently, they are a student at the University of Minnesota Law School, and have called themself a writer since they could learn to pick up a pencil. When they aren’t studying or scribbling, they also enjoy taking film photos around the city and playing with their 2 year old tabby cat, Howl.