Her human hands. Her human teeth. Her spine still curved from years of apologizing. The alarm clock reads 4:47 AM. The radiator clicks. Somewhere a neighbor is coughing.
And the dream answers: No. Stay.
But the sound of a cello, drawn across the ocean floor, fades so slowly she cannot tell when it stops. end. monster girl dreams diminuendo
She whispers, I’m sorry I take up so much space. Her human hands
The sound lasts for miles. Birds fall silent in respect. The moon flickers. drawn across the ocean floor
She wakes up.
