A tight collar, that would be best. Black leather, maybe some silver studs. If I could wrap it tightly around my mind with a very short leash, I might feel safer with him through each of these days. Try as I may, he slips my attempts to secure him, but I chase him nonetheless, corner him occasionally, make him sit. Sometimes, I catch him with a concept between his teeth tightly gripped. “Drop it, drop it, drrrroppp it,” I command. Every now and then he’ll listen and let it slide saliva saturated to the ground.
Writing
Merrin Wilding
February 4, 2019
