February 15, 2011

in no particular order

Maybe it was the wolves. They just don't shut up. Not tonight and not all of the last few hundred or so days. I imagine them hoofing it to the peak of clearing just to get the perfect silhouette of moonlight. Wolves don't howl at the moon. That's a great misconception. They just happen to know exactly how to display their good side.
A lone wolf is a common parable, but every time I've seen one, you can be sure enough that another isn't far off. I've never waited around to see it show, but you know. I don't suppose a natural predator would remove its gaze from a potential meal for one moment, unless it was bragging. And to my understanding wolves are proud creatures, aren't they?

Or perhaps it could have been snakes. The only ones worth bothering with are always the ones you really shouldn't. They tend to live up to all that cold blood. They are in no way more afraid of you than you are of them and they certainly have no qualms striking first just to let you know.

No, I haven't seen either in over a year probably. Only sometimes in a foggy mirror, on a bad day with good lighting. The tricky kind. A winter this cold is bound to have an unfavorable reaction with the hot-blooded. It doesn't take a lot. Like a virus, it barely needs a thing. And here they are. Warm particles will always travel to something cold, it just can't help itself. And sometimes I can't either.

I didn't use to be like this.
This, amongst other inparticulars I've been told, is a lie that doesn't know itself.  It's a collateral statement that has never ever in its existence having been uttered mattered. It is neither qualitative nor quantitative. If you don't watch your mouth, you might lead anyone to believe it. Luckily, I don't.

I have always been like this. Hot-blooded, teeth bared at anything as presumptuous as false intimacy or even something as innocent as true affection. That rabbit heart kind that spooks easily and is loyal only to its next impulse. If you listen to that heart, you'll always jump in blind, but if you listen to wolves you'll always be running. And since I am the way that I am, with just the most hypocritical democracy of head and heart, I have the distinct grief of indulging both at once.

It's only blood, I keep telling myself. Some days when I'm just about boiling point, all I can do is bleed at you. It's only blood, but sometimes something in it just makes me hate everything. It's everything I've got to give but there's just no way to siphon out the venom, not completely. It will not take no. It will kick and scream its way through every vein until it works its will. To make you listen, to understand this, to prove itself, to search and destroy, to fill you up, to love you.

And I come to you now in no particular order, no jackal's mask here. Just scale-clad wrath and all four-cornered instincts, freshly licked wounds already forming scabs that inevitably always get scratched apart. I nip at your throat and drag my teeth across your chest just so you know how it feels.
How difficult it is to accommodate an itch that no one will reach.

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