Prey.

I think I've been prey for so long

I know the smell of being hunted.

The musk of curiosity wrapped in menace,

that odd, hot-and-cold interest—

like wolves circling with questions,

never full, never gone.

When they watch too closely,

I tense like thunder in dry air.

They come close, but not too close.

Interested, not invested.

Curious, not changed.

Dipping a toe into my water

as if spirit could be sampled

without swallowing the flood.

They fear becoming like me—

soiled, sanctified,

touched by the aftermath of being hunted

and still walking.

They keep their claws.

They want to know without knowing,

to hunt without consequence,

to linger at the edge

where nothing is demanded

but everything is taken.

But I know the smell of being hunted.

I am more spirit than soul now,

threadbare between planes,

called back only by breath and body.

And no, I am not angry.

That is too human.

I am livid and aloof,

too distant for rage,

too ancient to play amused.

So they dip in, dip out—

a game of predator's caution.

But I see it coming.

And I do not flinch.