The Monster and His Blasphemy

You know that scene in the story
Where the monster or the demon
Or the zombie or the vampire,

Whose existence revolves around
Feeding off of living humans,
Possibly including children,

Refuses, in an act of will
And painful sacrifice, to feast
On the story’s protagonist?

It happens often in stories,
Often enough at least to be
Puzzling, given you wouldn’t trust

Any such monster in real life.
If a cannibal swears in court
That he would never harm your child,

Would he earn even a teaspoon
Of your sympathy? And what’s more,
How would that look to his own team,

A Big Friendly Giant who keeps
Edible human children stashed
Out of sight, uneaten—lion

Protective of some little rat?
No doubt to vampires and demons,
The abjuring of human blood

Seems foolish, if not blasphemy.
So if you wouldn’t credit it
In any individual,

And if your own teams call treason
Fraternizing with the pantry,
Why does this charm you in stories?

Because you know you are monsters
And source of all monstrosity,
You and your stories where you keep

Your words stashed away like captives
To take out and play with, your pets,
Which you would never cruelly eat.