Mark of a Pacifist
I am not a pacifist.
Not in my heart.
Not in my soul.
Petting a cat,
It grows displeased,
And surrounds my hand,
With claws and mouth.
"NO!" I command.
Startled, it retreats.
But in my mind...
I cannot forgive.
I cannot forget.
If it had drawn blood...
My hand squeezes,
Breaking its neck.
I throw its limp body against the wall--
In effigy.
Enemies!
Forever!
I will not feed it.
I will not comfort it.
I will not tolerate its presence.
But if I was a pacifist...
None of this would pass--
Through my head.
And at my bleeding hand,
I could only gaze,
Helplessly,
And cry.
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