wolves

i just want to shove it down and not think about it. seems easier. 

you got too close. you asked too much. you wouldn't let it go. 

but how would you know, of course you should ask, of course you should care.  


i mean, if it hadn't been you.


does that change things? how am i supposed to feel?

i know how to deal with you now but i feel so small. 

i want to dig my claws into your face and rip out that smile that i don't understand, that says either i know, but i've convinced myself i don't or in honestness i have no idea what i did. 

whatever your truth is, it would change the way you'd bleed. i'd know from the spatter of the former or the slow drip. they seem the same but it makes a difference. it makes a difference. the emptiness of you not understanding is deadness. is that more bearable than rage, than wanting to shred the rest of you?

how will i ever know when you spiral so, down down and farther down, always down and farther away?

i mean, what am i supposed to do with that, mother? what? how am i supposed to feel?