I hunt men the way a lioness stalks a gazelle
after months of meager meals eaten alone.
I pounce feebly and land in the grey dust
as the gazelle leaps nimbly away
and gazes at me with startled liquid eyes.
The gazelle knows I am too weak to chase,
and so with a flip of the tail it grazes idly nearby.
I do not forget the gazelle or our dance.
…until I become the tawny dust of the earth.
I am soulless and dehydrated and famished
and fatigued by my hunt and my aching hunger.
The gazelle has forgotten me,
but I dare not forget the gazelle.
When it wanders too close, I spring
and dig my teeth into its soft neck.
It cracks, and the gazelle hangs limp.
I stumble and fall with ragged breaths
and die of thirst, hunger, and want of love
as the hot blood pours over my teeth
and my dry tongue soaks it in like a sponge.
This is an old poem that I wrote several years ago, and not a new addition. I found it as I was clearing out my filing cabinets and liked it enough to post.