they say the lone wolf dies
yet the pack survives.
it is the strength of a whole and it solely that can mend for sturdy fangs and foreign bites
of ill-fated violence.
regrettable.

and although they say the pack survives, what is of the lone wolf?
is he fated to be swallowed whole by the jaws of his most trustworthy companions?
to be crucified as a slave and mistreated as a martyr?

they say the lone wolf dies
and his carcass serves as a reminder of what can be forgotten so easily
through the years he can be no more
and the pack will be, still

they say the pack survives upon the feeble shoulders of the lone wolf
feeding its ego and stomach
praying for another to idolize like the most precious of waste.
after one comes another
and time does not make saints out of victims
nor does the pack which thrives and feasts and tears limb to limb deities and sinners alike.

cruelty is no stranger to the pack
it is a principle to build community upon
and everyone relishes being the predator
until they too are made into the prey.

nobody ever remembers the lone wolf
nor do they remember whom he was before crucifixion
what they do remember is to never be pushed into such a place

the struggle never ends
and when another falls into their godless clutches
you'll thrive and feast and rejoice
and find yourself thinking
at least it’s not me

My lips hold back the lava in my chest.
The burning, consuming, encroaching destruction is hardening my resolve more than you could have guessed.
I feel so at home in the flames that water is so underwhelming.
It’s the coals I sleep on through everything.
To look so long at the light only to blind myself each time;
You’d think I’d learn my lesson after each rhyme.
I’ve never felt comfort for long enough to recall.
The videos of me laughing are something that now make me bawl.
I don’t know how that feels anymore.
I don’t remember what you sound like or the color of your front door.
Your voice no longer echoes in my head.
Your face no longer plagues me in bed.
I don’t know you outside of memories;
Moments of my time that bite like fleas.
You make me itch still,
A symptom that which the spot can never refill.
I’ve been battling between anger and grief for so long now.
It’s a why; it’s a how.
It’s a feeling I can’t live without.
No matter how hard I try to erase the pressure or smother the intensity, the kindling always relights in this drought.
With a deep breath in, releasing all the smoke back out.
It’s my meditation now.
It’s my medication now.
To smell it on someone else and be engrossed in the poison that this can allow;
My dear, that’s intoxicating for me lately.
A mass we are swallowing with the passing moment cornering us innately.
I don’t partake with my own vessel but I will consume a host so absorbed.
They don’t see me molding my character every time I get bored.
One day I will have the entire puzzle lined up together.
Each piece fitted so perfectly, completely combined in a tether.
They will compose a tale so broken and numb.
That’s the feeling that fills my ****** drum.
Every tear is a bad dream.
Every eyelash is a wish for this story to have a different theme.

To love someone is to give them your all, I think. But most everyone doesn't see it like that, their love isn't real love.
How can you give someone else every piece of you without chipping yourself away?
How can you place boundaries in something as limitless as love?
How can you hold yourself back when you have so much more to give?
My love is real love. It is pure and it is everything to me but means nothing to anyone else.
My love is unhealthy, they tell me.
Too much, not enough.
I take it too far, they tell me.
Too big a heart, not small enough.
They tell me to love myself first before I give my love to someone else because it is special and deserves to be taken care of.
But a love so special, so all-consuming, deserves to go to the person who means the most to me, why would I waste it on myself?
I tear myself apart to rebuild the ones I love, and they would never do the same for me. Because their love is not real love.