by Erika M. Carreon
I love when they're asleep. They live on the other side of the world. I have seen their picture but have never met them bodily, so till then, they are made of speech and soft noises. I could almost lay my head on it, the little grunts and sighs, the whines and snores, stuff them in a pillowcase and watch it take form, see the shape of the dent on the pillow where their head is supposed to be and fit my own onto it.
“Bunny,” they like to be called. And in turn, they call me sunshine. They love with an earthy simplicity you can cup in your hands, feel the trembling, beating heart of it through a soft, warm down. Sunshine is apt, if only because I don't know what kind of animal I am, what kind of creature lives in the cavity in my chest, what kind of amorphous hunger keeps me from saying the word that so easily slips through their lips like light through fingers held up against the sun. They say I am their light. In truth I feel too heavy, the animal gnawing and thrashing too much inside.
But sometimes the animal sleeps, and for those moments a warm, sweet air fills the room, lulling me to stillness. I cup my little rabbit in my hands, hold them up to my ear. Sunshine, they whisper, and I let the light in.
Erika M. Carreon co-founded Plural Online Journal and is half of the indie publishing duo Occult’s Razor with Neobie Gonzalez. She completed her BA and MFA at De La Salle University Manila where she taught with the Literature Department. She is currently taking her PhD at the University of Melbourne.