I grind my tongue along my jaw,
Feeling the jagged canines, the crushing molars,
This is keratin.
The same thing woven into the bristling quills of the porcupine,
The feathers that scrape the air,
The snapping maw, the piercing fang,
And I can feel the shadow of carnal savagery.
I tap my nails upon the desk,
Feel the grain of the wood, the spike of texture darting up my spine,
This is what tears out the throats of Lords,
This is the coursing adrenaline of the hunt.
And somewhere, a musician plucks his string.
Sometime, from a gaping mouth, filled with these teeth,
A preacher sung of Gods.
Somewhere, these fingertips, highlighted with wicked claws,
Wove dresses, plucked flowers,
So where, then, is the line between?
I lie sleeplessly in the night,
Letting thoughts paint the dark canvas of sleep,
And how trivial it all seems,
And what’s left to do?
But unravel the world.
Am I missing something, then?
If we are divine, what’s keratin?
I run my tongue along my teeth,
For I know what I can do with them.