Barnacle

I'm stuck to the wood. I'm starving. I'm a predator, a hunter, and a beast, but has my back been broken? My weight is heavy on me and I cannot move. My eyes stalk the waves of backs and averted eyes. They know. I know. I'm not a threat if they look away.

I'm stuck to the wood. I breathe in the stains of alcohol and I breathe in a little borrowed fire. Not enough to move my weight, but enough to ignite imagination. In my fever dreams, I'm vital - the predator, the hunter, the beast. Awake, I am unimpressive. I'm static. I'm stuck.

I'm stuck to the wood. Their armor's up. Their ears are up. They hear me. I see them. The chase is over and it never even started. I'm too weak to lose, too proud to let them see me run. They should crawl into my mouth, and they would die grateful, the ugly beasts. Their gracious hunter. Their bitter predator.

I'm stuck to the wood. Retired and removed. I'm forgotten. I've forgotten how to hunt. How to prey. How to dance like the beasts dance. I'm stuck to the wood.

I'm nothing.