I am the white, fluffy cat
that once you loved,
and now you despise--
having shoved back into the
very back closet, “out of harms way”.
And here I meow, pitifully,
waiting for you help, your rescue,
while all the while I plot and plan
exactly how I will attack
when you finally do surrender and come,
exactly how I will shred you
with these menacing claws.
For I am not all sweetness and light, no!
And that is what you must have realized once,
when first you saw that gleam in my eye.
The gleam that would dare to challenge you,
the gleam that would not ever,
allow myself to be trampled on,
the gleam that said:
“I see what you do.
I see your corruption and I do not agree,
do not stand for it, not ever.
If you wish to be “my owner”,
then you must be pure,
absolutely and completely--
and this is not the way that purity looks.”
And, yet, here I am, alone,
atoning for mistakes,
if, in fact, it is I who have made them
(which I seriously doubt).
Do you think it is fun to be here
in the isolation of my own company,
when I wish for nothing more
than to regain my honor, or to wreak your destruction?
(At this point--Either will do; I care not.)
And instead, I am reduced to meowing for sympathy,
which I despise.
And instead, I must “revel”
in the blackness of this place
(when I could be white).
. . . But again, I know that you care not.
So, go on your way,
go right on your merry way,
and pretend that you are utterly happy,
and that I am utterly bad,
but one day the truth will come out,
and you will be sorry.
And I will be avenged.