wolves aren't told by the moon to keep their howling down,
i once was one, a free, feral thing,
a cub, i'd open my mouth to bark and bare my half formed fangs
i would run with the wind and my disheveled hair being the only thing on my body
over time i have been tamed, learnt to keep my howl down to a whimper, sand my teeth to a shape more appropriate, less threatening,
shave my fur
they put clothes on me and tell me what was acceptable to wear and what was not
i lie on a bed made for men at night and dream of the wild, the thrill of the chase
if i hadn't blunted my fangs would they have been sharp enough to tear apart the boundaries society has made for me?
YOU ARE READING
little poems
Puisithese are little poems that id never love enough to show [lowercase intended]
