Today I feel like an animal. All hairy palms, full moons and legs so stubbly I break my Venus. I don’t even bother anymore. Why brush my hair? My mom is always asking me if I did, when I did, so why even try. I always look like a mess. They nicknamed me the animal. So I embrace it. I wear cheetah, leopard and snakeskin. Faux, thankyouverymuch. I don’t eat meat anymore. But sometimes I steal the pepperoni slices from my best friend’s side of the pizza.
“I thought you gave up meat?”
“I did,” I said, sliding off another greasy red circle to stuff into my mouth. The grease drips down my fingers. I lick it off.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You love it.”
She winks at me.
My best friend doesn’t call me an animal. She says I’m passionate. She says I can’t be stopped. What she doesn’t know won’t kill her.
Unless I actually break the chains this time.
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