If Only

The literati mafia

I used to want to feel the pain from consuming, like an emaciated lion viewing a life-saving meal, peacefully sipping from a pond, unaware of the hunger, survival, desperation of the creature lurking behind her, ready to pounce.

Ready to pounce, without the energy to kill, weakened by days of walking aimlessly after a one-on-one battle with the new kid in town, the one that takes the pride by force, murders the cubs of the females so there’s no complications, he’s free to force himself on them while they’re still mourning the loss of their blood.

I want to feel sorry for him, the one rejected, the one who lost the fight, but he took over the pride at one point, repeating cycles he’s currently on the tail end of, survival, carnal instinct to kill or be killed, eat or be eaten; if he doesn’t find the energy to pounce…

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