They Come Out of the Rain

By CL Bledsoe

They have no shoes. Their toes curl like clenched fists. They live on a diet of chocolate and blood and never share. We hand them paper as offering, and they take our fingers. We try to teach them to dance, and they drip on our carpets and stare. We try baking, leasing miner-al rights quite reasonably. They have no interest in the things of the belly or hands, only what’s beneath each. They smile while they peel our faces, chuckle while they guzzle from our throats, guffaw loudly while pureeing our organs. They sniffle in the heat of our common rooms, leave muddy trails on our stylish white carpets. When there’s nothing left of us, we rise and follow them out into the drizzle, chocolate in our pockets, coldness beneath our skins.