A lion I was

Cowering under the 

Stairs like an old crow,

The beast in my house 

Thudding down carpeted stairs

Right above me.

I whisper to myself that I am the

King of the jungle as I grip the

Knife in my hand tighter but

Blood drips onto the wood

Beneath me 

I was holding it the wrong way but

Pain doesn’t matter now, I was 

Built with padded skin and rough

Calluses meant to weather a thousand

Storms as I climbed up the tallest trees,

Blood can’t kill me but the beast can.

The thumps I hear between prolonged silences

Like I am the elk dawdling in brown grass

Suspecting but unsuspecting of a movement in the 

Fields on the other side of the expanse. I dip

My head low and think about the water my 

Throat is aching for but a second of rest means

A life wasted when the elk has died and I have my

Knife stuck in the chest of the beast.

I can never rest when I need to live, that’s why 

They call me queen of the jungle.