I didn’t care as much as the blood on the snow implied
it was after all just a horror show
you, with your nimble ways of
poking holes in my armor
you, with your kind smile and sharp knife
twisting screw
letting good drain out with bad
till meaning held no color.
I didn’t blame you at first
it’s a fact … some bite
they are taught to by pain
it’s a refuge, a coping mechanism, a
twist and writhe in slim net
of sanity and pathology
that’s all they know
the feral in their fur
if you try to be kind
they will purr
then go ahead and bite you.
I took my bleeding hand
stuck it in my mouth
to prevent saying the things I wanted to
Then I remembered all the little ways
you’d been before, the bare indifference
how I’d tried. Why had I kept on trying?
What possesses us to be kind
to broken things whose disapointment
in themselves turns to savagery?
At least it gave you an opportunity
to use that tenderness against me
I did feel a fool until I realized, yeah …
maybe you were my enemy all along
in that slow icing way you left me feeling emptied
which may say something about me
and how I should learn to try less
I’m sure you’d say; “nobody else can make you feel bad
without giving your permission.”
But I think I will disagree
that’s a passive-aggressive crock … Psych101
it’s your fault … no one else’s
with your holier-than-thou certainty
convinced you’re above us all
I walked away from the snow and the blood
a little cross at myself for not remembering
you can’t hand feed
wild cats.
TheFeatheredSleep 