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A Little Feral
There’s a car in my neighborhood with the bumper sticker “a little feral” and I think of how yesterday I sawed off two slices of watermelon and let them drip disgusting down my elbows. I catch myself sometimes: I forget to sweep the corners on purpose or run a load of laundry without soap. I press into the world’s chest—will it budge? I didn’t know I loved my first boyfriend until I yelled fuck you one night and he didn’t leave. I do this—I push back like a palm in church. I didn’t know I loved God until he grated the black night into my bowl and didn’t flinch when I threw up a few stars.
First published in ONLY POEMS (February, 2025)
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Thank you so much for featuring this poem 🤍
This poem humanises ferality as tenderness, a way of living that embraces mess as proof of being alive.
The watermelon dripping down elbows becomes a ritual of freedom, joy found in sticky imperfection.
Forgetting chores on purpose humanises rebellion, small acts of refusal against the tyranny of order.
The line “I press into the world’s chest will it budge?” humanises longing, a plea for intimacy with existence.
Love is discovered in rupture, when anger does not drive someone away but anchors them closer.
Faith is humanised through confrontation, God enduring the stars hurled back in protest without flinching.
The poem reframes devotion as friction, where resistance itself becomes evidence of attachment and care.
It humanises vulnerability as feral strength, showing how rawness and intimacy can coexist without apology.
The text insists that love and belief are not gentle they are tested in rupture, survival, and return.
Ultimately, it humanises the wild within us, reminding that truth often lives in the untamed pulse of defiance.