The initial compulsion was to comfort.
Strong arms, battered from the bruising battles against tin monsters, wrapped protectively around the softness of her vulnerability. Held the tenderness of her hurt right against a heart well-versed in the peculiarities of that fatally familiar storyline.
And it was difficult to let her go.
The smell of her hair reminded me of Irish innocence; the weight of restrained tears crushed the brittle skeletons of hopeful expectations. The ones promising better outcomes. Because everything new is always old again. And she was caught hard in the hopelessness of that contradiction.
I wanted to protect her. And champion the cause of her more gentle angels. Because I have known that hurt; I have lived that story. Those experiences branded me deep. And condemned me to wear similar scars.
That hard-won clarity triggered the urge to scream out the warnings. About the preciousness of time lost. The unsustainability of absent love. The shattering results of sacrificing everything for something, or someone, your heart knows is fucking wrong. But to which a stubborn brain still demands allegiance. Because the fear of the unknown far too often overshadows the light of more genuine opportunities.
That unspoken uncertainty inevitably feeds all the selfish monsters lurking under a broken marital bed. And her monsters were fucking hungry that beautiful and terrible 517 night.
I wanted to explain the totality of those sacrifices. And expose the damaging madness sprung from following only a path of muted subjugation. But in as gentle a manner as possible. So that she would not feel exploited. Or worse, manipulated. Because there has already been enough of that abusive influence. And I simply refused to add more.
Instead of shouting those warnings, I simply held her. Pulled her closer to the wisdom of a fool. Whispered into her ear some of the words that I knew that she needed to hear. The ones we all need to hear, when we find ourselves lost and wandering.
I have admittedly been running rather nomadic as of late. In spite of the many questionable choices I have embarrassingly made over this hot summer of brooding discontent, even the fevered brain of a fox running feral can understand the clear difference between what is right and who is wrong.
And her being that hurt, and unacknowledged, is just fucking wrong.
Some might see it as just another self-destructive temper-tantrum. Others might question the validity of more noble convictions. But the simple truth is that foxes and wolves really aren’t that different after all.
The world should recognize the joyful beauty of her empowering howls. And not be limited to only the choked whimper of her muffled sacrifices—she is so much more than the injuries and injustices committed against her.
Because she is wolf.
She is resilient.
And she deserves to be free.
