Where I'm from,
it's a good question.
I'm from the scent of the animal,
the beast in me, whether it be canine;
for my hunger for meat, or feline;
for the thrill of the chase.
The scent only I recognize,
the scent that can't be washed, copied, or seen be others,
The scent most eminent, in my dwelling, my sleeping place.
I'm from the confusion i saw in my past;
the self-hate I feel for myself for being so damn weak,
I was a runt of the liter who always used to ask the question "why";
I'm from the cold blood that flowed through the veins of those who;
those who mock, attacked, and even killed me: mentally.
I'm from hell, who's heat warmed that icy blood into;
into the sweet red wine with which others may taste, but none can drink.