You had your claws pressing
against skin and stretching it
so it looked like it would break
but the pain was borderline at worst
though the threat was understood
fully and you hated it but
all it did was make them grin

So now you sit quietly, as
every disenfranchised harpy must
watching your so-near-prey
bounce on unrequited-ly
while you flex your fingers
and make sharp your claws
on the timbers of passing ships

With the weather like it is
there won’t be much hunting –
not this season, anyway –
but you’ll survive I’m sure,
for even the kindest harpy
learns to dig deep eventually,
and a harpy you still be.


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