It always begins with throwing stones,
Bewitching laughter, shattered bones.
I sleep on a floor made of golden straw
And blood drips from my gaping maw.
You toss me scraps from a high table
As I covet from my suffocating stable.
Your affection comes at a steep price.
Does it feel good? Does it taste nice?
You taunt me with the kindest words
But the sound of pride is all I heard.
Self-preservation is a skill I cannot master--
Yes, I admit, I enjoy a little disaster.
I am not worthy of love, only play.
Perhaps I will be released someday.
I love the abuse despite my rage.
You poke, and ****, and I am still caged.