It rested in her hand all day, initially grabbed to sustain her til morning but once there she was comforted by its wholeness so held it instead.
It warmed easily within her palm, flesh against flesh… almost
Hunger became gripped by almost and woke urging fingers to become tools that dug into skin, feeding her need to drink anti|complex|ity.
The juice of pulverized flesh remains dripped from her lips as she put her fingers in her mouth to taste the bitterness beneath her nails, reminding herself of the transitory sense of comfort, addictive taste of sweetness and reaping flux to be found in the belly of her of childish imaginations.
It warmed easily in her throat, the bile, a tangible rope…