Petite Artillery
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By Greta Kaluževičiūtė.
I am a dog.
I am rabid.
I bark, I howl, I bare my fangs.
Spit drips from my mouth.
I feel my anger boiling in black froth toward every living thing.
As I run, I smell the fear and dread of people.
One girl’s scent draws me in.
I sink my teeth into her soft, welcoming thigh.
I’m taken aback. The smell of fresh blood mingles with something familiar.
Could it be you?
I chew one body, then another, then a third. Girls, boys. Children. Other dogs.
I chew and spit.
Drunk
I am a dog.
I am rabid.
I bark, I howl, I bare my fangs.
Spit drips from my mouth.
I feel my anger boiling in black froth toward every living thing.
As I run, I smell the fear and dread of people.
One girl’s scent draws me in.
I sink my teeth into her soft, welcoming thigh.
I’m taken aback. The smell of fresh blood mingles with something familiar.
Could it be you?
I chew one body, then another, then a third. Girls, boys. Children. Other dogs.
I chew and spit.
Drunk
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