Thirst

There’s a wolf in my backyard. He watches me from the window, his sharp eyes slicing the moon. I told him I was thirsty. My mouth was a desert, my tongue, quicksand. He was kind. He spat into his hand before reaching it out to me. Water gleamed between his fingers. He never promised me a river, he never promised me love. I misunderstood. But my thirst was greater than fear. My thirst was hunger. It was my fault — for being thirsty for a father, for seeking shelter in every possibility. So I leaned closer. And he smiled. For a moment, the world didn’t seem so sharp. The wind blew through the branches, and I almost believed that what shone in his eyes weren’t the blades that would open me, but the memory of a good man. Perhaps, I thought, the wolf was thirsty too... So I leaned closer. And the smell was warm, of flesh and iron, — and stories that should never be told. I leaned closer. And he called me beautiful, a whisper of dry leaves, but I waited for flowers. I could imagine how it would feel to hold his pinky finger, walking through gardens, pointing at trees — he’d help me climb them later. So I leaned closer. Because his teeth didn’t seem sharp. Because my father was a carpenter too, and when I smelled the sawdust on the cross, for a few seconds, I remembered home. So I leaned closer. And I blinked. And he swallowed me whole.