Cats Not the Musical

Cockroaches backstroke lazily in pools of condensed milk. Stacked newspapers pile up, yellowing ingrained tabloids. Her bed has a curved spine, her couch is a witchery shaped coven, a semaphore center for twitching tails. At her whirling core, she is mad, the way angels go mad, with bright-eyed ecstasy. The cat food cans are collectible, labels brown in a mold-tinted twilight all else decays with the half-life of stale urine. She calls her pink-tongued children by secret names, names handed down by necromancers to generations of neurotic felines, cackles, while she sleeps, spinning fur balls the size of small planets.