My bloody jaw

Just like cats sometimes do,

for their owners,

I leave what I’ve killed,

at her doorstep,

and say,

Look.

Look at me now.

At what I’ve done,

at who I’ve become.

But no matter how intense the hunt,

gifts from cats inspire humor,

never awe.

They end up in the trash,

not on the mantle.

Unwanted,

by a foreign species,

now closed,

to the possibility,

of any lasting value,

springing from the clutches of my bloody jaw.

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