I'm a Bad Dog

I get mean when I’m nervous,

like a bad dog —

I bare my teeth when the world gets too close,

my skin hackles up at shadows,

fangs bared at gentle hands.

My teeth flash before my words,

you see the bite before the fresh wound.

For not in hunger, but fear,

my heartbeat snarls through its trembling cage.

Call me cruel,

but I am only cornered.

Not in malice,

my body mistaking love for threat.

I disguise my fear as something sharper,

show my teeth, and let my threat be known.

Stay, if you can,

past the bites that litter my words.

I get mean when I’m nervous,

like a bad dog —

but even a bad dog dreams of being held.