The Hungry Dog

I was born into a world that does not see me. My body tells the story of absence; The hollow of my stomach, The jagged outline of my ribs, My fur, patchy and damp. I learned quickly that to want is to be ignored, And to ache is to exist. As a puppy, I thought someone might see me. I thought if I wagged my tail hard enough, If I tilted my head just right, The world might open its hands. But it did not. It only ever closed its fists, Turned its back, And left me with scraps, Too spoiled to taste. Now I roam alleys slick with rain, My nose pressed against the cold pavement. The air sharp with the tang of rust, The faint sweetness of a bruised apple Rotting in the dark. Even the light avoids me Street Lamps flicker, Shadows curl against my skin, Like they, too, are ashamed. I am no monster, Though that's how the world perceives me. I am just a dog that takes up too much space, Whose hunger speaks louder than it ever should. And yet, I keep searching. I follow the smell of bread I will never taste, The sound of footsteps I will never reach. I chase voices that don't belong to me, Hoping they might turn and see me, Hoping they might call for me. They do not. So I sit beneath a streetlamp that sputters and hums, And I imagine what it would feel like, To have the weight of a hand on my head, The sound of love spoken softly in the dark, A belly heavy with food, The sharp edges of my ribs fading into softness. I close my eyes and imagine, And for a moment, I am full.