when a dog first appeared at the house,
they were looking for a vigilant force to keep watch
as the night winds swept the clouds,
the moon bathing rooftops in its soft silver light;
tiny paws slid on the wooden floors,
the sound of claws reminding the walls
that a true apex predator had once again joined the pack.
power play may have many faces,
yet there is always a master
and the one who submits to them;
such is the nature of the kink,
as long as consent is involved;
yet somehow there's a price on an unborn head,
and a leash prepared at home
the underdeveloped eyes could never see;
consent,
no such thing exists
when one has to pour water in a half-filled bowl
just so it's easier to chew the kibble.
training began
with fangs buried deep in rubber,
plush,
and plastic,
the fakeness almost nice compared to the real thing,
the disgusting pulsing of life,
veins popping under pressure,
blood,
muscle tears,
ripped tendons,
now choke on it like a good girl you are.
biting is happiness,
bliss,
the sole purpose of being,
because it makes the others happy.
repeat after me,
strength is good,
because strength is praise.
praise is good,
because there's pleasure in wagging your tail,
and in the soft touch,
and in the belly scratches,
and in the crunchy little bits that come with the word treat.
the leaves, the snow, the rains, the heat,
repeat after me, no rinsing,
wear it on your face because you're proud of it,
it's not like anyone can notice.
fetch the ball so it can be thrown again.
time works its way even through stone,
what hope do weeping human hearts have?
if you make enough mistakes while spelling virtue,
it might as well become sin,
then a no-pull collar,
then a chain,
then a fist landing on your back.
the walls laugh,
because when you depend on someone,
you never quite match the speed,
the change of heart unexpected, violent,
so when the concrete finally crumbles,
it dies confident, smug,
it was always better to stay in place,
watch one predator rise
from the ashes of another.
(if you think about it,
bone dust is indeed most nutritious when used sparingly)
yet the walls are not alive,
not really there,
not committed,
not fully in it,
and so they would never know the pleasure.
love is a butterfly,
alive for a day,
its extinguished existence so painfully beautiful,
it makes death fade,
the horrors hum in unison,
life tremble in ecstasy,
time stop as the wings' flatter.
landing the last blow on the skull,
that was never smart enough
to understand the beauty behind madness,
as the last spark bursts into flames,
answer,
is it the dog's fault
if it learned to bite
only so it could please its master?
#mixedwriting
