Sometimes, hurt things like to be hurt. In my dreams, I find I am one of these hurt things. The first time I know I like the hurt, I am a deer with a broken leg and she is hunting me.

The first sighting. She’s bright-eyed and wrapped up warm. I shake on twig legs, one hoof pulled to my chest, poised to run. I’m cold, so cold the shaking is all I am. She likes the little sounds that start at the back of my throat.

It begins as a play. She doesn’t like it when I’m too easy. I need to make her work for her dinner. She wants me not to want her, but to let her take me anyway. She wants to feel like she has won me. She wants me to be scared. Fear keeps the blood pumping, flavors my flesh, fills my eyes liquid, keeps my limbs stretched. 

Am I thinking too much about what she wants? Do I know how to parse my own desires independent of her? We are a complex eco-system of desire. I am jagged prostation. She is searchlight, hot to the touch. She wants me to want her. I want her to want me. We want each other’s wanting more than we want each other.

Lacan would love my brain in a jar, my jello-soft grey matter and all its camera-shy electricity. My mind would make a sweet mush, an easy supper for a great man of science. I’d cook it for him, if I could, fix his crooked bowtie and bring him a newcut cigar while he unravels my cerebrum. 

I start running when her foot shifts, quick as can be. It’s tough going with this little leg of mine, fragments of bone shifting side to side. I wasn’t made to suffer so. Desperation makes my skull thick, brain sick with its heaviness.

There is no sound of her. Just a quick, occasional rustle of a branch, the crunch of snow. Enough to keep me running. There is no air for thought in such a quiet wood of want. 

I stumble in a clearing, swinging my head around as I steady. Muscles tense; bile rises. She’s there at the edge of the brush. Our eyes meet. Her eyes are dilated, black and fawning as mine. Now, I needn’t fake my fear. She will catch me soon. Now, I’m scared to die. I know I still will.

And so, I run. The water in my ears, the sea. My legs are jolting with pain, zigzagging electricity. One small stone–I trip–I will not get back up.

I fall to the ground. I have run as far as I can. Rocks between my hooves, dirt staining my sides, sweat beading down my forehead. I rest my legs, all unbroken. She’ll find this trick out soon enough, delight at how I act for her.

I press my fingers to the soft hollow hair coating my breasts. I hold myself in place. I hear her now. I feel my spasms. The anticipation makes me ache.

The hunter takes aim. The sharp thing hits me. I fall apart. The wetness is spreading between my legs. My heart is pounding. I am dying. I am convulsive and wailing. The blame is all hers.

After, she will love me apart until her fingers are weak and pruning, cover me in oil and crushed herbs, wipe her mouth where it drools. Carry my tender body from the bed to the bath. Simmer until my muscles break apart and I am sweet-smelling and warm to her lips. I am so glad I let her hurt me again, tonight.

Tomorrow, I will come back as a bunny. I love to think of how she’ll flay the flesh from my fur. I’m happy about  all the essential vitamins and minerals my meat will provide her. If I’m really good, she might even hang my paw from her windshield mirror, her special lucky charm.

🦌🏹