biting the hand.

I’d like to think of you
as the mastermind of some nefarious plot.

A kind of demonic puppeteer,
pulling my strings,
sending me skipping towards destruction;
A depraved clockmaker,
winding my gears,
setting me ticking towards an explosive end;
Or even simply
a snake, lying coiled in my heart,
fangs bared and ready to spring.

But, no, you are no villain.

And I?
I am only the dog that grovels at the master’s feet,
begging for scraps.