The Wolf, & I

Short tale of a long darkness Prose poem

I was face to face with the wolf.
Its eyes, black as a moonless sky, pierced straight through my eyes and penetrated my soul.
My heart shook with a force that rattled my ribcage, and tingled my spine.
The teeth on the wolf were bared, I could see the sharp yellowing canines mixed with saliva dripping from its mouth.

I knew the hunger of the wolf was not to be satisfied with only one victim. It was bloodthirsty, searching for a multitude of flesh to rip from the warm corpses it would relentlessly devour. The anger and desperation was as thick as the wolf's jet black fur coat. It was ragged and dirty, with patches on its left side, the vulnerable skin was beet red, as if it had been gnawing on itself.

Its paws made big, deep impressions in the ground, as it inched towards me, not breaking its striking eye contact with me. At least others will know what tore my limbs to shreds when I'm found, I thought to myself. I involuntarily closed my eyes, hoping this starved wolf would bite my jugular vein, and I'd bleed out quickly enough to not be a live appetizer.

I was peering at my own death. Something I contemplated doing myself for years. I wouldn't have to prolong the inevitable.
But I wasn't going to die this day. I was in a state of delirium, withdrawal, and battling my inner wolf.

I was face to face with a wolf. It was the wolf that reared its head at everyone else. That growled to its peers and siblings. And that bit itself in self loathe. The wolf still exists. It wanders in the shadows, hungry. I can still hear the sorrowful howls, that nobody else cares to listen to.