(Poetry, prose, etc. Some may contain cursing.)
Only the Wolf
They are called pigs for a good reason.
Smug little thorns, I just wanted company.
But they are not entirely to blame.
No one wants to befriend a wolf, after all.
I guess you can call me too forward,
demanding forcible entrance to their doorsteps.
But you know in all the versions, I never
explicitly say I want to devour them.
Pigs are filthy creatures. They eat terrible things.
Pink and fleshy like their human masters.
Funny thing, pigs are so similar to people.
Or the humans who call themselves people.
I never was a person in their eyes, never anything
of grace or beauty. Endangered species list.
Angry farmers and their slaughtered sheep.
I was hungry. I was famished. I was tired.
Wolves of nature are not usually alone, but in this
tale I was solitary. Perhaps this made me a fluke,
desperate in my loneliness. I really did want to speak.
I really didn't want to be demonized.
There's another story about me featuring a girl.
Don't talk to strangers. But she was no pig, pretty thing
but children are far from appetizing. If anything
I cannot eat her whole. But humans can annihilate.
Worse that the pigs. At least pigs are satisfied with
mud and garbage. People, should they be called people,
want a lot more than just happiness, some nameless
thing is what they are after. Some destructive something.
To think I am the villain in the string of words.
A lone wolf is a frightened wolf, and does not last long.
But I have survived the ages, if only out of my own
viciousness. But really, what weakness envelops me.
Love Letter Lost
I
I wrote you a Sanskrit love letter, and mailed it in hopes that you would understand beyond the words.
But my message was lost in translation, choking in the weeds of false pretenses, dying from the desert that is my
stuttering eloquence.
I'm not particularly loquacious, and you know that, but with a pen and paper I spill out my heart like alcohol in a
glass.
I guess you had too much of my wine. You just want a sip. You don't want to drink all of me and choke and cough and
become dry in the mouth.
You don't want a hangover either, when I leave you. You don't want anything from me but the buzz. I understand. You've
had wine before. A lot of it.
But me, I want to get drunk from you. I want to die from your sweet inebriation. I want so much, and I know I can never
have it.
II
I got your letter, and no, your words were fine. Your message was clear, like the burning blue of a sky free of clouds.
It's not something that usually happens, you know.
You are sweet. Wine is such a romantic item to use for metaphors of love. But you do know that it burns the stomach
lining and poisons your system.
It also gets you dependent. I am a working woman, and I do not want to be dependent on anything, no matter how
wonderful it seems to be.
I think to some other girl, you'll be more like water. You'll make up more than three-fourths of her. You'll fill her
up. You'll quench her thirst.
Water might be good for me. But I don't want to be reliant on anything, even if water is what will make me whole and
alive again.
I'd rather die, I think, but you are a nice boy.
Heart Tumor
Rakesh pictures angiosarcoma as a rapidly growing forest of blood vessels, and each seedling blossoming into
magisterial, congested sequoias. They had burst open after two short months of the diagnosis, and his brother drowned,
a stirring of red in his chest. How whisperingly fitting, he thought then, and thinks now, that Jaichand, with his
heart as tall as a skyscraper, would die of it collapsing from the weight of his strained love.
He adored and continues to adore his brother, and hated him now and hates him still. Perfect grades, perfect face,
perfect manners, and murderous kindness. The favored son, the valedictorian, the ever so patient donor of time and
attention, the name his teachers say in reference. “Jaichand's brother.” Rakesh, an after-note.
But.
Love was there, love had to be there. He recalls his envy and his rage, remembers calling his brother a one man
ass-kissing act and wishing that he was dead. He reconstructs his brother's genuinely crestfallen face, the impassioned
exchange, the embracing. Rakesh never did apologize for it, because a part of him still thought himself right, and now
he is regretting this choice.
Yesterday was the one year anniversary. Today is the wallowing after visiting the slab of rock atop a hill, alone,
howling obscenities at the awful sky.
He is in his living room watching a special on Buddhist religion, slouching over at the couch and scratching his belly,
wondering why anyone would want nirvana. There is a dull thudding beneath his cage of muscle and bone. His eyes are
blurry. He sleeps.
---
“You were never stable, Rakesh.”
Jaichand is the mighty regent of this kingdom, his castle atop a hill. He is dressed in a hospital gown, the kind that
does not close at the back, IV tubes filled with red liquid adorning his neck. He is smiling, face both powerful and
kind, and Rakesh kneels reverently before him, head bowed close to the ground.
“What is it you desire, my prince?”
Rakesh's armor glows silver and splendid, and his face is solemn. At the back of his head he is weeping, at the front
of his mind he is thinking himself truly a knight.
“There is a great beast prowling the land, and he has taken something of mine.”
The blue, backless gown is pulled down to his waist, and there is a small, hollow, box-shaped hole in the prince's
chest. It is lined with blood velvet. Rakesh nods, understanding.
He receives a blessing and a kiss on the forehead. The mourning noises in his head is growing louder as he leaves the
castle, blade at hand. A horse awaits him, and he tears off its flesh, riding its fiery, bony remnants down the
hill.
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