Every seven years our bodies change, every cell. Every seven years, we disappear.
She'll understand what I already know - that death surrounds us all. And it tastes like metal between your teeth.
Hold my hand. Don't let go.
Should we say something?’ Cal asks. ‘Goodbye, bird?’ I suggest. He nods. ‘Goodbye, bird. Thank you for coming. And good luck.
Her skin tasted expensive.
I've always wanted to be a cat. Warm and domesticated when you want to be, wild when you don't.