I Am a Survivor
I call him the wolf. From so far in my past as to be but a vague memory to me, he prowls the midnight hours of my stolen youth. Shrouded in promise, he paces the halls of my memory, each step ringing through the restless breaths of my mourning. He bears no name, no title but the "Wolf" as to give him a name would be to give a face to that which has become but an idea. To name him would be to admit the humanity he has forsaken in his reckless abandon of himself and all that he once stood for.
From the shadows, cast long by the lateness of the hour and the mind, his teeth drop with the blood of oaths cast aside. His claws, sharper than the knives he used to brand me a liar, scratch the surface of who I once was. Scared, alone, afraid, unsure. Eyes that haunt my nightmares hang in the gloom of repressed conciousness and screams no one heard. He is the wolf of the midnight hour.
Under the weight of his predatory eyes, I feel shame burning beneath my skin. The skin that he claimed without sanction. I am filled with an old anger, one I thought I had laid aside. But as I find the wolf outside my door once more, I find bile rising within me. Everything I told myself were dead and buried claw their way up from the grave I dug for myself. I am angry. Not at him, but at myself. For not fighting, not fleeing, not standing up. Instead, I gave in and gave up. When I was backed into a corner, I did not fight. I would not fight for who I was because I did not believe in who I would become. The world told me that the wolf had changed. Surely it had been a misunderstanding. Pity is cheap commodity among the unbelievers. After all.... With my history and the kind of girl I was... Well... Surely he is no longer the one I know so well. I went willingly into the wolves' den because this time he is different. This time he's changed. This time he means it. He always meant it.
He is the wolf, and though a wolf may donn the clothing of a friend and come before me in contrite amendment, he is still the wolf. He is still the wolf that uses the sympathy of a friend as a foot in the door. He who I called brother, friend, with his soot stained lungs and borrowed promises is always the wolf. No matter the phrases that drip from his gilded tongue in covenant oaths of change, he is and always will be the wolf who twists late night weaknesses into streaming banners of anathema. Who garbed himself in innocents borne of betrayal and deceit. He is my wolf.
From the shadows, cast long by the lateness of the hour and the mind, his teeth drop with the blood of oaths cast aside. His claws, sharper than the knives he used to brand me a liar, scratch the surface of who I once was. Scared, alone, afraid, unsure. Eyes that haunt my nightmares hang in the gloom of repressed conciousness and screams no one heard. He is the wolf of the midnight hour.
Under the weight of his predatory eyes, I feel shame burning beneath my skin. The skin that he claimed without sanction. I am filled with an old anger, one I thought I had laid aside. But as I find the wolf outside my door once more, I find bile rising within me. Everything I told myself were dead and buried claw their way up from the grave I dug for myself. I am angry. Not at him, but at myself. For not fighting, not fleeing, not standing up. Instead, I gave in and gave up. When I was backed into a corner, I did not fight. I would not fight for who I was because I did not believe in who I would become. The world told me that the wolf had changed. Surely it had been a misunderstanding. Pity is cheap commodity among the unbelievers. After all.... With my history and the kind of girl I was... Well... Surely he is no longer the one I know so well. I went willingly into the wolves' den because this time he is different. This time he's changed. This time he means it. He always meant it.
He is the wolf, and though a wolf may donn the clothing of a friend and come before me in contrite amendment, he is still the wolf. He is still the wolf that uses the sympathy of a friend as a foot in the door. He who I called brother, friend, with his soot stained lungs and borrowed promises is always the wolf. No matter the phrases that drip from his gilded tongue in covenant oaths of change, he is and always will be the wolf who twists late night weaknesses into streaming banners of anathema. Who garbed himself in innocents borne of betrayal and deceit. He is my wolf.
