A memory, a shadow, a text from the ether shakes the cage—in this moment, I feel scorned.
And after all this time, I almost forgot, in all this staged thoughtfulness: my ego is alive. I laugh—being scorned makes me hungry.
I will never choose to be second—I will eat my own tail first—I will let ghrelin rise. I will cast a searing gaze at the moon—the mother that has loved me like the dusk—and I still bite and spit in the light.
I am weak and alive and not chosen—even with my animal pressing against my chest—I must push against the rock to know where I stand. I must be feral for a moment to find air—dig my hooves and hands in the red clay to find my person again.
