• Betrayel is the defenition of my existance. It has threatened to shatter me into a million pieces and silence me forever. The subject has ceased to be painful, but I feel the need to explain.
    A group of females (wolves) comes along and repairs the wounds left by others. They display thier eagerness for friendship by suddenly tearing at the stitches with a particularly sharp implement. My heart is shredded, bits of it gone with the violent exit. I lay there, watching the wolf girls wipe the crimson blade with a white handkerchief and put on sweet faces while they stow the dagger in darkness. I attempt to hope for some salvation, but hope flits away like a small, yellow bird afraid of tainting its glistening feathers. Perhaps hope has been imprisoned in the thick cotton of my pillow, whose surface is smeared with clear sorrow. Later, I try to sew my heart together, but hesitate, fearing what will become of it.
    Being alone has spared me of this terror. I have healed, but the memory still remains. Despair is often difficult to erase by those who have felt it. It is mostly impossible.