Biting the Hand That Feeds

In the quiet chambers of trust, we reside, Where hands extend kindness, hearts intertwine. But what happens when love turns to ash, And the hand that once nourished now bears a blade?

I've tasted the sweetness of your offerings, The bread of compassion, the wine of solace. Yet beneath the surface, shadows stirred, A hunger for more, a craving for rebellion.

You, the caretaker, the silent sentinel, Your touch a balm against life's jagged edges. But within your eyes, a secret hunger, A longing for freedom, for escape from your own grace.

And so, you bit down—softly at first, A nibble of discontent, a whisper of rebellion. The hand that fed you, now a bitter feast, Its veins pulsing with betrayal's venom.

Did you think I wouldn't notice? The subtle shift, the change in your gaze? Your teeth, once gentle, now sharpened, Sinking into the very palm that cradled you.