The heart can hurt with hate for itself. When it beats it batters, wall against wall. I can feel it’s sour vengeance; the thunderer against the coward, angry at its smaller nature, it’s weaker resolve, knowing who will ultimately fail everyone first. How meager a muscle for what it should and could have been, were that inferior part not so.
What large lion worth its pride bears down tooth to a lover’s neck? Shave and shame him to the corner of the jungle—where it touches the city, where he’ll be jabbed with poles and jostled by sirens by day and by night. His punishment should drive him mad and sad both: How could you hurt a mother?
And man answers him thusly: like this, lion. Like this. With curiosity and weakness and with stabbing and prying and late remorse—and by forgiving ourselves our sins.
The weaker valve still beats. The courageous one shamed by its intrinsic faults. Animal predicament. But the lion bares his shame while we humans shrug it off, murder him, shame the best of ourselves to preserve our own bad conscience, and wear his skin and crown ourselves false kings with our lying pride.