Mitten

She is a mitten,

knit from breath and bone,

soft, sure,

made to cradle,

made to hold—

but easy to lose.

-

Dropped, maybe.

Forgotten.

Or maybe she slipped,

tired of holding on,

tired of being held.

-

The snow takes her first,

cold and uncaring,

a blank hush that smothers,

soft as suffocation.

She lies still.

She lies open.

-

The mouse comes sharp,

small hunger in a quiet world.

It burrows,

teeth scraping against her ribs,

sinking into the soft belly of her,

the place no one sees.

It chews and chews,

little bites of her from the inside.

Pain, small and constant.

Almost invisible.

Until it isn’t.

-

The frog follows,

slick with something she can’t name,

skin like a promise that feels wrong.

It slides inside,

cold and wet,

claiming space without asking.

Lies don’t knock. They crawl beneath the skin.

She lets it in.

It’s easier to be full of poison

than to be empty.

-

The hare comes next,

all soft eyes and sharp need.

It presses close,

innocent as hunger,

but eats her hollow,

slow and sweet.

It doesn’t tear—

just thins her seams,

softens her for sharper things.

-

The fox comes grinning,

all clever eyes and sharp edges.

It stretches against her,

pushing past the worn weave.

It says, You’re lucky to be wanted at all.

She believes it.

She holds tighter,

even as it tears her wider.

-

The wolf presses next,

heavy, hungry,

with teeth that know her name.

It doesn’t ask.

It takes.

It takes until she’s thin,

until every breath feels like breaking.

She chokes on the crack, but seals it down.

Wolves don’t like weakness.

-

And then the bear.

Blunt, brutal,

too big, too much.

It forces its way in,

crushing, unfolding,

filling every corner until there is nothing left of her,

nothing but stretch and strain and the sound of fabric tearing.

-

She holds.

She holds.

Until she doesn’t.

-

Threads snap.

Breath tears.

She rips open,

a scream stitched from shame.

-

And they scatter—

all of them,

like they were never inside her,

like they never pressed her thin,

never gnawed or lied or tore.

-

Just snow now.

And scraps of her,

tangled and gaping.

A ruin of threads,

a softness turned raw.

-

But maybe,

if the wreck is ugly enough,

if the tearing is loud enough,

someone will stoop,

drag her up,

not to save, but to own.

-

Who wouldn’t want

something that’s already split itself open

just to be held?

.