I Eat Cats

They know.
They can tell what I’m really all about.
My boyfriend, Will, thinks I’m a nice friendly person, but his cats know I’m going to fucking eat them.
Foolish Will, inviting me into his apartment, leaving me alone with them for hours. Can’t he see what they know for sure? That it’s only a matter of time before I finally catch them and rip their flesh from their tiny bones, sucking and smacking on them while I wear their skin like hats?
I am crafty, I make out like I only want to pet them, or give them treats. I cluck at them, and wiggle my fingers, so to outsiders it looks like I am desperate for them to like me or at least pay attention to me. But they know that it’s all code for “watch your backs, you walking sandwiches”. When I lie motionless on the floor, arms outstretched and palms full of Salmon-flavored Tartar Control Pounce, I am really just ironically teasing them. I am saying “see, this is what I would do if I longed to cuddle your adorable little paws and whiskers. Too bad I’m going to fucking eat you instead.“
They are smart to flee from my every movement. They are no fools! I might have the rest of the world convinced, but these two cats have peered into my very soul and can see I am up to no good. If they didn’t hide under the bed every time I walked into the apartment, they’d definitely be dead by now. I might be hungry for innocent cat-blood, but I cannot fit under the bed, and in fact sometimes think they have disappeared entirely when I can’t see them. I am easily outsmarted.
We have a mutual understanding. We respect each other, as any hunter and prey should. This is why they accept my gifts of knitted cat toys, yet still hate me. Why they hide under blankets when I walk through the room, but still demand that I feed them. We both know that while we must co-exist for now, our dance continues. I’ll eat you someday, cats!

Brunch: