i was born; to two disheveled parents.
the white fur that crawled on my skin
was dirty, even missing clumps.
alike to those who were my kin.
i was born; to be tested.
the chain clung to my neck,
the links of metal matt with crimson
that my tired, dusty paws couldn’t break.
i was born; to hear the cries
of my inmates and my parents
and of my own strangled breath.
tremors hitting the walls of our cagey tents.
i was born; but for what?
to have screws drilled,
paws tied for the damned research;
innovations that my torturers craved?
maybe it was my calling.
my wretched mission, purpose
to be ripped apart for these
things they call cosmetics, i suppose.
alas i was born;
to be killed for the cutting edge future.
as my powerless, weakling of a body
refused to comply with the torture.