WARNINGS FOR:
Mental illness vent / Implied molestation
.
I was not an angry dog.
No, I wasn't ever.
I was a scared dog.
A writhing, wiggling mass of fur that kept wailing and yipping until your hand reached to me, stroking my fuzzy head and soothing its worries. Promising a truth I had not seen in my home. Had not seen with my mother and father.
But I did not deserve the treatment you, in particular, had in store for me. I was a puppy.
I was a puppy.
I was a puppy.
I was a puppy.
My stomach squirms with larvae. I will never be fully awake. I will never be able to comprehend the ways in which you held me and cracked me apart in your hands, no regret in your eyes, no skin off your teeth. I crumbled and cracked like a sheet of earth, breaking to your whim without recollection. Even now, I cannot recall the things you did. Why can't I remember? I can't remember. I wish I could remember. No, I'm glad I don't remember. I'm unsure —
I'm unsure how it is you could have looked at a puppy, so small and infinitesimal in your large, ever-so-holy palms, and do what you did.
The dog is disillusioned.
The dog is riddled with mange.
The dog is angry now.
The dog wishes it had bitten you before it was muzzled.
