I am that of a kicked puppy— bashed over the head many times,
before I come crawling back.
Back for that affection I seek, for that love I so desperately desire, only to see that they will never reciprocate.
But each time I hold that small, twitchy ember in my quivering hands, that little hope, that maybe,— just maybe, I’ll get something in return.
A crumb, or perhaps a pat on the head.
I starve for slop.
And hunt as the prey.