In Her Snarls

I have a rib cage.

Inside of it is a tigress.

She has a slinky stride, a menacing glare, and an apathy for anyone and everyone’s existence.

She snarls.

She flicks her tail in irritation.

Pacing. Pacing. Pacing.

A habit tantamount to a human’s clenched jaw.

Meditating on frustration. Brewing blasphemy. Creating agony.

Back and forth she slides along my ribs.

Waiting for that fortuitous crack. For escape. For anarchy.

But until then, she accepts her fate.

In her snarls you can hear, que sera sera.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Que Sera Sera.”


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