I am quiet, domesticated
yet fiercely independent.
I pad silently about my domain
at an easy, unhurried pace.
I seem harmless, affectionate
even submissive as I bask
in a warm patch of sunlight.
When ego dictates
I mingle happily among people,
eager, impatient, hungry for attention.
Yet most of the time
I am too proud, too aloof to be touched.
I enjoy when they stroke my sleekness,
pamper me, spoil me as I purr
but my preference for solitude
always wins out.
I like to belong, feel secure in the love of others
and yet will be owned by no one.
And if anyone or anything threatens
A startling transformation will occur.
This quietly domestic, submissive little creature
will turn feral,
will arch, spit, scratch
to defend what she cares about,
with no thought of consequence.
The havoc I wreak
when talons are drawn and teeth are bared
you will not soon forget.
And somehow, no matter how hard the fight or
how far the fall, I land on my feet.
I am a survivor.Maybe it’s true.
A cat really does have nine lives.
Do you think you have a cat personality? Or is there another animal you identify with?
If I have a choice, what do I choose
do I escape this place, do I run away
as far as no one can find me?
I have been struggling,
can’t settle down –
the cuts are deep. I try to heal
but it is hard to heal a hurt
deeper than the ocean.
I try but none of this is easy,
not as easy as bleeding words
angry, messed up,
stillborn on a white page.
How I feel nobody knows;
no one understands what
I have lived. Sometimes I hope
for a deep sleep and never
never wake up,
a kind of running away
from a sour reality.
But somehow I endure
suppress the hurts
pretend nothing is wrong.
Easy to say, isn’t it?
I cannot cry. I turn my face away
when he comes in,
hide the tears, hide the pain –
they will inflame and
invite his fist again.