Hungry For The Wolf

I feel a think coming: shoot it between my legs. The man I’m yearning for will ride Old Sparky today. Handsome, clean-looking guy, just my type. Maybe not a man of virtue, but virtue never did make a man—it’s the daredevil ones who got balls of steel. Bad boys. More than the icing, they’re the cherry on top. Mama said I’m out of my mind. I’d rather be out of my clothes, under him, possibly being strangled, but I’ll die happy.

The lone wolf wanders over the desolate, cold places of my mind. Separated from the pack, he searches for respite from the turbulent terrain. What he needs is a shewolf to shield his neck in the case of an attack. I am that shewolf, hear me howl.

I dread the day when his fists will no longer brush with my face. His touches are gentle but they leave me black and blue. Leader of the pack, I will follow him to the ends of the earth. His fangs rip at my flesh but I cry out in joy and bleed in ecstasy. I am a willing prey to my predator like gold that never doubts the power of the flames that refine it. So too, my body is a repository of the wolf’s formidable strength and the scars are here to prove it.

In the wolf’s den the gods dare not pass. For in the wolf’s den, the wolf is god of itself. Beneath the full moon, I howl along with my creator, the wolf. I am an offering to him, he may do as he wishes. Rome wasn’t founded in a day, but it takes a wolf to raise the founders of Rome. I desire to become one with the wolf. I’ll happily drink from the same cup.

They called him The Wolf. The symbol of mavericks because of his solitary nature. Hail victory is our battle cry, descendants of an undefeated race, the salt of the earth, The Ones Who Shall Not Mourn. He is my Fuhrer, my guide to the better future I desire. He is the wolf within me, coaxing the ferocious spirit of the wild in me that I was able to commit atrocities to those we deemed weak. He is Apollo, and together we ride his chariot.

But as this city burns, he becomes my Nero, fiddling with a gun to his head.

I am hungry for the wolf: I shall not want. My teeth are sharp enough to break his skin. My hands are strong enough to break his neck. In the morning upon waking up, I summon the wolf and he stares back at me in the mirror. When the wolf leaves me, he takes with him my spirit and spares a pitiful lump of flesh that quivers in fear at the slightest provocation. The wolf is somewhere within but often gets lost in the immutable ebb and flow of metamorphosis. The wolf, lonely and isolated, lurks in the crevices left behind by the intensity of growth. I have changed. I have entered the wolf’s den.

By the fire, in the penumbra surrounding the cave, I sit still and wait for the wolf to pounce on me. Lupo ovem commisisti. Any minute now.

I click my teeth because I’m ready to pounce back.