He tried to pet my belly,
which was severely a miscalculation.
I was lying on my back,
and it was not an invitation.
It was their own fault,
and now their hand has a bloody indentation.

I perch on a windowsill,
stretching my pin-point claws.
That self-entitled human sits in a chair a ways away,
attending to trickling scratches with white gauze.

I groom my pretty paws,
stained with a bit of blood.
My human mutters out a language that I do not understand,
but I know they sound angry and slurred like slippery mud.

The Owner
I was only trying to pet her,
but I soon clutch hand, hissing out from sharp pain.
My cat sits smugly on a windowsill,
and I wonder if that thing has any sense in her brain.

If she sits on her back,
all pompous and calm,
I would never suspect
that she’s secretly a furry and clawed time bomb.

I snatch a few gauzes and apply them to my wounds,
grumbling curses at the glossy-furred animal.
“Note to self,” I say out loud,
“Never embrace something that can be so irrational.”