it's just a myth right

i. normally you avoid alleys, but you’re cold, hair dripping
like niagara falls, water crawling down your back, a drag of wet fingers,
and so you take the chance, like all those before you.

ii. it’s dark, with black brick walls faded into a void of sky, 
and you don’t see them at first;  they wear stars like camouflage,
shielding ebony and alabaster skin.

iii. “are you lost?” they ask, with feral grins and half kind eyes,
like you are a kitten caught in a trap and they are caught
somewhere between help and hinder.

iv. “no.” you say, hand itching for your pepper spray, like something
as simple as a canister could protect you. they gather like a sea before
your feet, tall and thin, but with a shadow of something at their back

v. their grasping hands curve around your spine, dig deep
into your flesh like you are a clay block and their greatest desire
is to mould you, misshape you, create you.

vi. it stops as abruptly as it started and you are alone. you rush home,
drag mud through the carpets in your race for the mirror. you gaze at your
reflection, so sure it should have changed, but the same face you left 
the house with stares back.

vii. or does it? you think your eyes might be darker, wilder, filled with
something primal. your back itches, skin crawling like it holds a healing 
wound. you let your eyes close for a second, just one second, and you fall.
you tumble head first into the abyss that awaits.

viii. you awaken a god, baptised in holy water rain and a pain
that slicks under your skin, white hot and writhing. 


Wow, some of you take your myths involving Norwegian Forest Cats really seriously. Some might say, too seriously. To those who are now lecturing me about how WRONG I AM, I say this: Clearly you’ve never owned a cat. Just like Mjolnir, you will never convince me that cats can’t change their density based on if they do or do not want to be picked up.