When They Treat You Like A Dog Poem by James McLain James McLain

when they treat you like a dog
you start with the tail-tucked shame of it,
the low growl under the ribs
that nobody hears—
not even you,
at first.

they talk to you like you're furniture
with teeth,
like you're something half-wild
and half-worthless,
and soon enough
you believe them.

you act the part—
pads worn thin
from pacing the same four walls,
head down,
doing tricks for scraps
of counterfeit affection.

and then—
of course—
they beat you for being
exactly
what they made.

this is the miracle of cruelty:
it shapes the clay
and curses the sculpture.

but listen—
a dog can remember
the scent of the open road,
the wind that doesn't belong to anyone,
the night that has never once
asked for obedience.

so one day
you stop bowing,
stop begging,
stop believing in hands
that only know how to strike.

you walk out—
limping maybe,
scarred surely—
but free, goddamn it,
free in the way
only the once-broken
can ever be.