Hunger and wolves

By Michael Sixto

Those who know me understand I am not passive.

I don’t like to easily surrender,

but I have plenty of reasons to leave.

Those who know me justify my 5370411821_617c37946c_bactions.

They have long ceased to care.

They say I’m crazy. I don’t think I am.

In silence they compare me with characters

of Russian books read in times of hunger and weariness.

An old man arrives and asks if I am cold.

I shake my head while trying to evade his conversation.

It doesn’t seem to matter the fact that I am totally ignoring him.

Then he takes my hand,

“I was like you”, he whispers in my ear as he disappears in the crowd.

A bus swiftly passes by leaving a thick trail of smoke.

The night begins to fall. The park becomes shelter for wolves.

Those who know me call me Sonny, Tormented Poor Boy.

They show their teeth hoping I will return them a smile.

At night those who know me are no longer able

to distinguish myself in the dark.

I like the dark.

I see the wolves approaching and I stand still.

There’s something in their eyes that chilled me in the inside.

I let them eat me slowly while I satisfy my own hunger.

The old man discovers the scene and quickly runs thru…

as if he never knew me. Ashamed, in disgust he runs.

Today I decided to give myself in

when I still have superfluous reasons to leave.

Those who know me understand I am not passive,

but none of them is walking around this night.

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