Wolves
a poem that should be fiction but is not
I am someone, I am human; more than my father's daughter, more than my mother's anger, more than my unborn child's first mother— and we have been here before, with our purls and pens, clips and sashes, tears and sins, our gold, our glitter, we have been here before. I am more than this body, the same one that lustfully pleases you: the wolf in the woods; your mind is strong, full of lies stupid enough to convince that stupid wolf brain, so, you replaces my screams of fear and of help, for whatever fills you up. I am more than a pray, a walking desire, more than this figure you seek out as I set throughout the woods as the devil consumes you— the same woods that have grown in the backyard of my home, where I was promised to be safe from such wolves. But, you can smell my flesh, and my fear draws you in. Though, so be it, wear my blood with your pride, let it cover you from head to paw, soaked into your furr, staining your rotten flesh underneath, leaving you burnt and forever ridden with me— My echo will be head, the trees beyond will never silence me. And you can never use your howl to bring back more, because no matter how much you cry out in lies, you're tongue will always bite back; with each new taste of the blood that consumes your mouth it tastes more sour than before and unsatisfies you.
This is my song of choice…