They are so tender, and sensitive, and often gullible, maybe even feminine, all the men in my life. Would I trade them all in for a good can of tuna? I have my moments. They require emptying, of the spaces they inhabit, of the thoughts in their heads, of the blood in their veins. It is in my nature to oblige with a love that recalls, but is not, cruelty.
So I scratch all the men in my life. And they bleed. I regret it but all of them turned and said thank you after they healed with new blood. I meowed enigmatically in response.
As you do.