#wolf metaphor

[ask-the-katherines]

Wolf, where did you get that mask? It's cute!!

'Cute?'

...

... He made it for me. Said we needed to keep who we were a secret, that we needed to hide.

He told me I could change it if I wanted, that it didn't have to be a creature, it was just what he could get.

He always knew me better than I knew myself. He always loved me anyway.

He is a fool. But I love him. He will not leave.

[lifenconcepts]

rotten shame

I need you to know I tend to represent myself as a dog in something that isn’t submissive vulnerability and loyal & blind obedience but rather a raw primal drive and delight masked by passivity, to prove that I still have all the things that carried on through my genetics and ancestors, and yet my mummy taught me to be docile. I am kind, I like to be, and yet I’m still capable or horrors. My teeth may be shiny white, my claws well tripped, and my coat glossy and soft, yet, know that behind my growls and raised hackles I back away not due to fear but rather trust. I trust you to understand I don’t want to hurt you and yet I’m displeased. I’m entirely capable of defending myself, I can and I might, I’m content with feeling blood taint all of the aforementioned, but I’ve absorbed the ways of my master and my body isn’t my own. Still, sympathise with my mind for I have emotions and abilities of my own. . . A wolf, on the other hand, is unapologetically themselves. A power behind a lovable face. It isn’t my fault for your naivety, you saw my fangs and snout and assumed me to be of a different descent. I’m a canine, yet not a well trained dog. I can harm and I will. Keeping quiet i stalk the wood, but you should be told to keep a distance. A threat is still a threat even if it percieved itself as kind. I’ll tear at your throat and howl with your cries, but know, I’m not doing this out of spite.

[yourlocalmissingtexture]

Runaway

Gazing into the abyss, you bite your lip playfully, flirting with knives and rot and empty veins, yet you tremble as the abyss stares back with hopeful predatory eyes and salivating jaws, asking “do you speak truly of your lust, oh delicacy?”

Intent and shame are poor defense, and guilt could never scrub clean those crimson claws if it wanted, nor polish the bones beneath them or purify your intact pounding heart.

And where now was that goodness once conjured by your name? Had it too abandoned you? In what ditch did that angel now lay, or was there ever one that accompanied you? Would you have heeded the warnings? It doesn’t matter. You belonged to the abyss before you could speak.

What did you expect would happen anyway, Little Red, playing in these woods? Did you think yourself immune? So smart and well-behaved, yet here you are, teasing wolves, sinking stomach. The maws are famished, bottomless, yet you can still escape if you run.

So why then, grave as your circumstance, cold as your blood,

Don’t you want to leave?