I have a pack of Truth, coated in fur and fangs.
They chase when I’m lost and when I’m on the right path, which has lead to miscommunicated love.
For a long time, I thought the wolves were preying on me. Now I realize they were my prayers answered.
As a cub, I’d roll around with the wolves in the mud and howled in a high pitch to the moon. We trekked across lands while I slept. My hair stood in pleasure, and my favorite game was to follow the leader. I trusted their instincts, and learned I had my own. I was safe, and fresh with curiosity.
One day I wandered and swallowed something they would never have fed me. My hair continued to stand, but where it once only tickled and caused me to dance, my body started to freeze. Each time, another morsel of me slipped out of my skin, and I slowly lost the native tongue the wolves had taught me.
Out of my body, the physical world felt unsafe. Other creatures moved into the space I left vacant. The longer I drifted, any sensation felt life threatening, and my trust scampered into the hills.
My rebellion was silent, floating outside meant I didn’t have access to my voice box. I stayed connected by strings, becoming the puppeteer of my hollow body. I carved her out to be a “good girl.” However, inside there was a primal nature building up steam under pressure to be anything other than dirty. My esteem was too fragile to withstand the force of being the one to blame, or piling on more shame, so I did my best to be perfect.
The cravings to be wild never left, only intensified, so I floated further into fantasy to feed the hunger. In my mind, I could safely simmer in the heat but never catch fire.
I’d imagine luring my crush away from the school dance floor and pinning him against the bathroom stall to twist tongues. In reality, I would stay tongue tied.
The wolves felt my heat, ran, and circled.
I didn’t want to die. I didn’t realize the only thing they wanted to kill were the beliefs that had invaded the body they loved.
Years later, I believed my wolf pack had evolved into demons. That they were the fanged eating disorder biting at the heels of the “good girl” for her to fix all that wasn’t perfect, to extinguish all raw passion. I frantically gnawed to get to what was fundamentally wrong and kept surfacing empty handed, only to plunge again convinced I hadn’t tried hard enough. I walled off and hoarded the feelings that were feeding me —sadness, grief, pain, anger...
The wolves felt my chill, ran, and lunged.
I fought until I fell, and they carried me into their Winter cave. It was dark and misty from their frosted breath. I curled up to make myself small and protect my heart as I drifted into hibernation. When I took a breath it was shallow. Every now and then I’d smell the sweet, musty stench of an animal's corpse. At the time, I didn’t realize the meaty carcasses were an offering, the wolves teaching me once again how to appreciate the richness of flesh on bones. Now I know the wolves were keeping me alive so my
soul could stay.
I lived in the cave for seasons that added into years until I could stand and walk out myself but not alone. A wolf escorted me out and still stands watch.
It’s been a journey to fill in the form I escaped from and relearn the language my body speaks and the wolves taught me from the beginning of my time. Now, I can feel the subtle wind when the wolves are gathering from miles away to hunt me down. When I think I’m lost, I look for the steam that puffs out of their nostrils, and settles into a layer of fog at the horizon. The rhythmic rumble of their paws pounding the path vibrate into my footsteps.
The wolves are summoned by the sound of my Soul restless and overwhelmed, clawing at my ribs as it attempts to scamper out. My mouth drools as my rage swarms and thoughts dash to tearing flesh and sucking on the ends of bones. My body swells, and my energy thickens. Running will surely deplete me of everything I have. There’s a frantic desperation to eat, create, or fuck, anything to relieve some of the pressure that has my mind spinning out of control. My fury and terror knocks out the positivity puppets and border patrol programed to elevate me to higher ground, and coral me inside the fences of intellect to gain control.
My Soul’s thrashing in my gut lifts the scent of my blood into the air to alarm the wolves that I need to be hunted.
We have a dance — I run, they stay at my heels until I’m exhausted and fall. Their rugged, wet tongues hover over my neck and breasts to lick the salty wounds around my heart. I put up a fight, and they know I want to be taken. It’s an agreement we have, a game to agitate my wildness till I cry for mercy and let out a howl of remembrance.
After the kill, the wolves sleep beside me to warm my exposed Soul. Resting skin-to-skin, our wild hearts sync. Faithful servants, the wolves stay as long as it takes, until I awake and stand again for my escort into the world. Each kill rebirths my commitment to anchor into the body that is my room on Earth’s empire,
and confirms my strength to be tenderized by the stampede of callused paws.
The wolves feel my power, and run to prey over me again in a wild form of worship.