Preydator

I can see through the predators eyes quite easily, though I work to keep this sheep's clothing as tight as possible.

I walk upright, I keep my hair from standing on end. I force these fangs behind my lips and swallow my saliva as a a scent from faraway sent hits me.

I don't let my pupils dilate. I still my heart, put ice in my veins, slow this ever-quickening gait.

I wrap my tail around my waist and keep my growl to a whisper.

I haven't tasted blood in a decade.

I even stopped digging holes and started keeping the fleas at bay.

But alone? I tear my clothes, let loose my fur, stretch my toes, give a gaping yawn. My nails click on the tile, my growl fills the hall.

Sometimes I'll wait until dark, clamber up the stairs and risk a howl at the moon.

Never a response.