When I was six years old,

my bunny, Snow, passed.

Her body went cold

as I squeezed her heart out.

 

There it was, on the ground,

beating out my name,

creating the sound

of love she had for me.

 

Dropping down to my knees,

my pointer and thumb

picked up the heart I squeezed,

with blood beneath my nails.

 

Did she really love me,

or was she something I kept?

When will I be free

from the darkness that I feel?

 

Which one is really Snow:

her heart or body?

I don’t even know

where to lay her to sleep.

 

That night, I cuddled Snow

with her heart in my hand,

hoping she would grow

into a rabbit soon.