I see a crying crocodile on a bathtub.

It screams, it quivers and revolts. It yells a thousand incoherent words that make perfect sense when they enter my ears. It cries and screams, only crocodiles can do such noise.

“It’s not my fault!!” It yowls, it sobs, it sighs and begins again “It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault!!” A repetition, hammer on the nail; over and over. The crocodile hides: it’s arms are way too short for covering it’s face, it’s hands too small. Still, it hides. It becomes a pile of skin, as if the flesh was able to melt in water; bones are filaments of candy cotton, sugarcanes. All gone, and I’m simply staring at a bathtub, alone.

Then there’s the beast. A monster. Not a crocodile, but a growling feral dog that lives inside of me. She wakes it up; I believe she’s meant to be it’s food.