Wounded Animal

I don’t like you very much; 

see, I know you at your core.
You’re a wounded animal,
still whimpering and sore.

You'd bite a friendly hand
If it dared to come near,
for fear that it may harm you
like others you held dear.

With swift, exacting words
you tore through my skin.
They were undeserved,
but I took them with a grin.

In your fervor is an anger,
and a sadness too.

You’ve forgotten to be kind;
others weren’t to you.

I don’t like you very much
because you’re making me the same.
I’m aiming for your throat
before you speak my name.