They call me creature,
those who come
to dig their fingers into my flesh,
those whose wanton ways
leave me to crawl in their dirt.
They call me such words
that make their tongues as hot as fire,
so their iron can strip me
of my pelt,
their spit burn to my bones
when I am caught
in their slobbering jaws.
They call me creature,
thing,
it.
Is my skin not thick and plump?
Is my fur not course and full?
Do they see me as glass?
When they look in these great eyes
do they see themselves,
small, afraid, impotent?
Is that why they call me
creature?
