Sometimes in the nest,
rats curl close,
twitch and turn
until their tails
knot tight.
Squirrels do it too,
sometimes.
You might find
two, three—
even five—
bound together,
a single, snarling mess.
They call it a king rat.
Marriage to you
was like that.
No untangling,
no gentle parting—
only escape
through death.
Yours, mine,
or both.
I cut off my tail
so I might live.
For that, I hope,
in death—
you can—
forgive.
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