COWS

by Matthew Stokoe

The cows kept coming, and each one took something from him; shavings of sensitivity, perception, care. He was being robbed, violated. One of the few parts of himself he wanted to keep was being cauterised into hard scar tissue.

He turned the TV on, but he lay on the bed with his back to it because it was a liar. It held up pictures and said you could be like them, but it didn't tell you how easily everything fell to pieces.