Runt

I don't appreciate your selfish
evolution;
The way your skin grows thicker,
And your eyes mirror the winter cold,
And the way you adapt to flights of
fancy
That rip out my core when they slam
the door behind them.
Your chromatic ambience demands
attention,
(As if I didn't notice you before
anyway)
And your conflicting philosophy
confuses your prey.
And I finally see ...
Our play as cubs was training.
Tigresses hunt.
But my footfalls are still clumsy,
And I harbor compassion for the
gazelles,
And although my instincts tempt me,
I don't think I'll develop a taste for
blood.