There was a bat the other day, at that blue house by my bus stop.
Its wing was caught in the wooden trim.
A blue jay ripped at its body.
I threw a rock at the blue jay, and it flew to another tree.
But then I had to go pick up my siblings from school.

I told my friend.
She is a beautiful, colorful, cheerful, wonderful person.
She laughed.
I would have laughed, maybe, if it had been the bat eating the blue jay.
But I wanted to yell at my friend and shake her apart and claw at her with a razor beak.

It must be something to do with my love for creatures of the night.
That would make sense, with my spiders and skull and favorite black coat.
I could have started the trend for villains' crows.
Maybe it could only be me.
Maybe I was the only one who'd be able to hear how the bat squeaks sounded like a baby crying.

Yes, a bat is a creature of the night.
It's a villain animal, always.
Blue jays are blue.
They're pretty.
Creatures of the day.

So it has to be something wrong with me.
I'm not goth or emo, but I still must be a creature of the night.
No creature of the day, it seems, would feel like I do about that bat.
No creature of the day would hear a blue jay's call and shudder.
No creature of the day would keep spiders in her room, even pretty pink ones, and feed them electrocuted flies.
No creature of the day would step around glittering swarming black ants.
No creature of the day pauses, breath held in awe, to watch a giant bee on a delicate lilac flower.

I like lilacs.
I like daisies and dandelions and pretty pretty tulips, and I like the color pink, and I like things that sparkle and shine, and strawberries, and sundresses with flip-flops, and I love the sun on my arms.

But that bat's body is gone now.
The wing is still stuck there, french-fried by the summer heat, unreachable, buried in wood.
And I am proud to be a creature of the night.