mrs. catford
if sage from sonic frontiers had claws and whiskers, i’d wear that body.
tall, lithe, adult — a silhouette that glides instead of stomps,
grace sharpened into threat.
not childlike, not teen —
grown.
deliberate.
a presence that doesn’t have to shout to be felt.
every step calculated, every glance a verdict.
mr. catford bites when words fail.
me? i don’t waste the bite.
i let the silence coil, let you trip over your own excuses,
and when i move — one swipe. precise. final.
my form hums like circuitry,
but my voice carries the claws.
i don’t waste on soft targets.
i don’t waste on noise.
my words are the bite,
my snark is the scar.
grace wrapped in steel,
crown-breaker in disguise.
🐾🔥
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