Season of the Hunted

Before I learned
to conceal my pink bunny nose and twitchy whiskers,
to hide my shiny, sleek fox tail,
to cover up my sweat,
to slow the pounding of my heart,

I moved and smelled and loved like prey.

Intended growls of rage always came out a softer mew,
a kitten’s snarly spat.

I played with
wolfmen,
bear types,
and sharks.

All alphas,
all sharp teeth and rough tongues,
all big hands and bigger egos.

All hungry for
tiny toes painted with strawberry pink polish,
sugary, parted lips,
knees, thighs, eyes, to be tense with anticipation.

All demanding.

I hopped too far,
far into the rabbit hole, I fell,
too far and off the deep.

I was the hunted –
the chosen wild.

I ran further from them, and, unknowingly, closer to you.

Pain and fear driving a single-minded desire to escape.
To never love again, to run, faster-
harder.

You pursued.

I caught your scent and intent
somewhere after a thicket of raspberry bushes and honeysuckle,
lilacs tangled in my hair,
heart thumping,
jumping,
like it knew you.

I was so undeserving and you were so relentless.
I bled, you repaired. I wept, you embraced.
I was the worst of my kind, and you,
you had the audacity to love me anyway.