Queen of the jungle,

                    this sprawling metropolis.

Feline and lithe,

                    She sprang in to life.

Prowling her domain,

                    feeling nothing but pain. 

But this tiger was tough,

                    used to the loneliness.

This patch was ruff,

                     devoid of rosiness,

filled to the brim with thorns,

                     threatening to spill at the slightest word.

Hundreds of thousands,

                     cascade on this unsuspecting soldier.

Shredding skin, matted fir.

This tiger is not so valiant now.

                     her heart sliced,

by a million tiny brambles

harmless, till they all bite at once. 

 

Her mind, 

              shackled by ivy,

                                     relishing in crippled agony.

the only release, is to stop this fight. 

      To embrace the pain.

To prove she is no mistress to this jungle she calls her mind.

Her choice, 

              she chose this, 

she knows she did not succumb to her environment,

                     rather she fought back.

Anything they do, 

                      I can do better, she tells herself. 

She knows she can handle it.

For how much longer,

             she isnt sure.

Her attempts at resistance,

            while futile in essence,

stays etched on her thighs,

            carved on her thighs.

 

Forever a reminder,

                of her daily struggle.

But this cat knows,

that the thorns will strike again soon, 

but she can handle the pain.