my excuse is that i was raised by wolves, my dear
and i had my teeth filed into pinpoints
and i had my back hunched over until my spine was a golden arc.
but did you ever run with a pack, my dear?
your food came to you, cooked, prepared, served by a gloved hand.
and everything could be solved with a 'please' and a 'thank you'.
but our differences don't stop there, my dear
there is a distinction between school grounds and hunting grounds
between daisy chains and food chains.
or, if you please, packed lunch and slain lunch
better still: between praying and preying
between what one hears and what one herds.
yet here we are, my deer
and for all notions of civilized behaviour
you are the one baring animal teeth.
listen to aurora's all my demons for all your inspiration needs. cough up a hairball in the form of a poem.
