i’m sorry i couldn’t find the cat’s new medicine. i’m sorry i couldn’t hold her still. when she saw me coming, she made herself small, and when i picked her up in my arms, her body went rigid. she is so small and helpless and she knows it. every time i grab her i want to whisper i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry. but she’s as sick as i am and she doesn’t know it, doesn’t know the needles are full of what will make her better. we stick her with needles that will make her better and they don’t work. they stick me with needles that will make me better and they don’t work.

there’s a point where you give up, but we’re not there yet. there’s a point where you give up, but it’s different for a twelve-year-old cat and a twenty-three-year-old person. there’s a point where you give up, but nobody wants to say so. i’m running away with the cat, i’ll tell my mother. we’ll live somewhere we can rot in peace.

i’ll live with you, little cat, somewhere that’s always precisely seventy degrees, somewhere sunny but never too bright, and we’ll eat tuna and ginger until our tongues turn sour. you can lick the juice off of my fingers and i’ll pet your sticky fur. i won’t count the ounces you’ve lost and you won’t ask me to rate my pain. i’ll sing you made-up songs and you’ll sing me meow meow meow and no one will ever offer us a recording contract.

we’ll have cardboard boxes and warm laptops and lots of books. the syringes pulling in and out of us will stop, and our blood will be our own to do what we want with. i’ll write a novel. i’ll sleep curled up by your side. i’ll get down on the ground and eat grass with you. we’ll just be two girls, ravenous and pawing at our dinners and throwing up on the rug.