I am doomed to be prey.  

The trees pay no mind to soft wails of the lifeless, 
see no difference between damned and righteous, 
the canopy prays not when the moon-dyed arrows 
of Artemis loom, hide among their narrow 
branches, and dive where the hunted lay. 

 I am soon to be prey. 

The forest floor swells to meet my feet, ushering 
me, brushing me through moss timidly uttering 
a warning muffled by scratching bark 
that showers the forest in fog hanging dark— 
I no longer feel safe here, that is to say 
my rose-tinted eyelids have begun fluttering, 
uncovering the rotting swamps of your contempt, 
the trees pay no mind to sore discontent — 
a twig gasps under your boot like brittle clay.  

I don’t want to be prey. 

My flesh lulls and swoons ‘neath your apathetic steel; 
your bludgeon’s dull face now seals your next meal, 
my body moves with yours, each part of me you steal, 
my hooves quiver wildly in dense and empty air — 
dense with your intent, the higher purpose I bear — 
while your knife drips searing passion, singing my hair, 
I snort and choke through the sweet stench of decay. 

 I resign to be prey. 

You lap up my nectar, you starving mutt, 
my vision throbs at your carving, my eyes close shut 
but I feel the trees shift, shedding dissonant chords 
from their trunks, spreading jarring harmonies like hoards 
of splintered mirrors at medusa’s feet, my blood 
dampens the soil and my senses begin to sway. 

I’m nothing more than prey. 

I wake with the weightless sensation of freedom, 
the constraints of my frame abandoned, 
collapsed beside me, a pathetic reminder 
of what I used to be – of what I was used for. 

I cannot bleed for you anymore, 
I have no flesh left for you to take –  
the twilight is your birthright to hide in, 
the shadows are now mine to hunt in, 
you will seek salvation in the break of dawn 
while my serrated blade will haunt you through dusk. 

I will chisel a tomb from your desperation, 
your fear shall lay me to rest, 
your agony my final requiem. 

For I am no longer prey.

I have a habit of sitting down in the shower
And curling up in a ball like how a flower
Waits to unfurl, and bloom, and tower,
And— That's a lie, actually. I have a habit of that too.

Truth is, I've only done that a few times.
Enough to the point where I'd almost quite like
To be known as the type who might do that sometimes.
Like, "yeah, that's the kind of guy who... sits down in the shower."

My mum doesn't like me taking too long.
She'd scratch vapour from windows and make a huge song
About water meters, and how wrong 
It is to steal from the clouds. She'd have a point too. 

Just wait for it now, she'll call again soon.
She'll come traipsing up the stairs, humming the tune
To some Westlife track from way back, like '02?
And she'll lose her shit, nearly blow a fuse
'Cause one room of the house shoots her bills through the roof.
And I'll sit here, confused, like I don't have a clue 
That she's fuming my brothers need to use that room too.

It's been twenty odd minutes now — that's usually her cue.
It's ok, I don't mind another minute or two;
I've got plenty of time and nothing to do.
Well, I admit that isn't quite true.

I admit this world's not the one I once knew.
All its pieces are sharp, and dishonest, and new.
And they don't fit together like how they're meant to.

I admit it seemed smaller when I stood next to you.
When I didn't know losing was a thing I could do.
I admit you're not coming, that's been long overdue.

I've been pretending.
But then again,
I've a habit of that too.