04-29-2015, 11:37 AM
Like a snake I have hidden myself in the comfort of the forest watching happiness glow from a distance. My oasis known as the meadow has been kind enough to me for the year. I wrap myself in her camouflage at night and periodically wander the shadows when I feel no one will be here to bother me. Perhaps I am born to be a loner—a single wolf, a bachelorette—and not suited for the social aspect of kingdoms.
Today, I am nestled in the comfort of snow in a small clearing that the forest provides. I like it here especially, where the trees make a giant oval wall and the only thing that comes to view with a beating heart is a passing bird and chattering squirrel. Those I can tolerate. They are territorial, talkative, but yet they tend to leave me alone unless I bed a little too close to her nest. I can respect that: looking out for your young.
I certainly never had it, but I can see why it is such a beautiful thing: love.
Has my heart grown a dark shade of grey over this year? Bitterness isn’t what I would call it. I would consider it a past that has shaped my soul. SHE wasn’t there, and Warship wished he had not been there. I was born from a mare that was so embarrassed by my existence she had left me out to die, and raised by a man so bitter from his past that he had seen me the mirror to his mistakes.
Dead to me.
The sun is just hardly rising over the tops of trees and I feel already like the heat is about to melt my skin. It has gotten so incredibly warm lately I can feel the snow around me liquidate into water at the welcome of spring. Soon, maybe a couple weeks, the first blossom of warm weather will bloom before my eyes.
I almost feel entitled to kill it and save her from its misery.
I rise because I feel as though lazing the day away won’t do my figure any favors. My coat is damp on my right side from snoozing a little too long in moistened snow, making my white patches turn a hue of deep grey. I guess I am a two year old now—one year away from motherhood and yet still young enough to have no respect. My mane is thickening and growing at a patient pace, my tail lengthening to the bottom of my hocks. I stretch my back out with two steps forward and then a large bow; feeling my spine and hind end reach.
I am blind about myself and my beauty. While I consider my slender physique a weakness—men see it as a tasty treat. While I see my mane and forelock as a nuisance, I know if I had a mother she would coo how luscious it had grown. My appearance of myself is average, mediocre, alright.
but oh, how others see you.
By the time I emerge from the dwelling of my forest it is late afternoon. I am desperate to turn around, but eventually I must play nice with other diplomats and today might as well be that day. Snow—sticky from melting but not being hot enough to fully dissolve—clings to my hooves like wasted weight. My body stiffens at the sight of a dark charcoal brute—too small and young looking to be Warship but yet an uncanny resemblance. My throat thickens and my eyes burn: we have missed you.
I certainly didn’t know I had a brother to miss. Thank you Warship for your informative conversation. By the way my burden of a daughter Smother, you have a brother who might ocassionally stalk you in the field even after you disown the entire family.
Why, thank you for sharing such informative details father. Even that word still drips with disdain and poison off my tongue.
Part of me wonders how informed this young child is. Does he know who I am? What I said? Though I have no doubt if Warship had failed to tell me, then I would put down my entire life that this poor child had yet to hear of me.
And then it hit me; I like games.
My approach to him is cougar like—I don’t mean to, but it just comes naturally that I am always on offense and protecting my zone. My eyes focus on him like cold stones in the ground—unwavering, steady. He comes so quick into reach that part of me just wants to squeeze his throat and watch blood curl from his eyes and his nostrils wheeze with lack of air.
He hasn’t done anything to you,
Not yet.
“You’re a little young to be wandering from mommy-dearest,” is what I start off with, my tone condescending and no doubt intentionally pushing his buttons. Will he take the bait?
Today, I am nestled in the comfort of snow in a small clearing that the forest provides. I like it here especially, where the trees make a giant oval wall and the only thing that comes to view with a beating heart is a passing bird and chattering squirrel. Those I can tolerate. They are territorial, talkative, but yet they tend to leave me alone unless I bed a little too close to her nest. I can respect that: looking out for your young.
I certainly never had it, but I can see why it is such a beautiful thing: love.
Has my heart grown a dark shade of grey over this year? Bitterness isn’t what I would call it. I would consider it a past that has shaped my soul. SHE wasn’t there, and Warship wished he had not been there. I was born from a mare that was so embarrassed by my existence she had left me out to die, and raised by a man so bitter from his past that he had seen me the mirror to his mistakes.
Dead to me.
The sun is just hardly rising over the tops of trees and I feel already like the heat is about to melt my skin. It has gotten so incredibly warm lately I can feel the snow around me liquidate into water at the welcome of spring. Soon, maybe a couple weeks, the first blossom of warm weather will bloom before my eyes.
I almost feel entitled to kill it and save her from its misery.
I rise because I feel as though lazing the day away won’t do my figure any favors. My coat is damp on my right side from snoozing a little too long in moistened snow, making my white patches turn a hue of deep grey. I guess I am a two year old now—one year away from motherhood and yet still young enough to have no respect. My mane is thickening and growing at a patient pace, my tail lengthening to the bottom of my hocks. I stretch my back out with two steps forward and then a large bow; feeling my spine and hind end reach.
I am blind about myself and my beauty. While I consider my slender physique a weakness—men see it as a tasty treat. While I see my mane and forelock as a nuisance, I know if I had a mother she would coo how luscious it had grown. My appearance of myself is average, mediocre, alright.
but oh, how others see you.
By the time I emerge from the dwelling of my forest it is late afternoon. I am desperate to turn around, but eventually I must play nice with other diplomats and today might as well be that day. Snow—sticky from melting but not being hot enough to fully dissolve—clings to my hooves like wasted weight. My body stiffens at the sight of a dark charcoal brute—too small and young looking to be Warship but yet an uncanny resemblance. My throat thickens and my eyes burn: we have missed you.
I certainly didn’t know I had a brother to miss. Thank you Warship for your informative conversation. By the way my burden of a daughter Smother, you have a brother who might ocassionally stalk you in the field even after you disown the entire family.
Why, thank you for sharing such informative details father. Even that word still drips with disdain and poison off my tongue.
Part of me wonders how informed this young child is. Does he know who I am? What I said? Though I have no doubt if Warship had failed to tell me, then I would put down my entire life that this poor child had yet to hear of me.
And then it hit me; I like games.
My approach to him is cougar like—I don’t mean to, but it just comes naturally that I am always on offense and protecting my zone. My eyes focus on him like cold stones in the ground—unwavering, steady. He comes so quick into reach that part of me just wants to squeeze his throat and watch blood curl from his eyes and his nostrils wheeze with lack of air.
He hasn’t done anything to you,
Not yet.
“You’re a little young to be wandering from mommy-dearest,” is what I start off with, my tone condescending and no doubt intentionally pushing his buttons. Will he take the bait?