The Wolf

You fed me lies

with a silver spoon,

and I ate them

starving, shaking,

grateful for the warmth

of anything

that looked like love.

I wasn’t the only one.

You touched them,

and then came home to me.

You said they were just friends.

You said it with calm eyes

and steady breath,

while their scent

still clung to your skin.

You shared my stories

with other bodies

still echoing through yours.

And I,

I whispered truth into your chest

while you whispered rehearsed tenderness

into theirs.

You studied me like a map,

traced every scar,

learned every soft place.

Then you aimed for them.

One by one.

A hunter

dressed like a healer.

You held me

like a man who knew how.

But your hands were empty.

Your mouth, full.

Full of promises

like sugar on a poisoned tongue.

I begged for scraps

and you watched,

watched me shrink

to fit inside the silence

you made sacred.

I tried to believe.

That I was enough.

That you meant it.

That love sounded like you.

But it didn’t.

It never did.

You were never hungry for love.

You were hungry for power.

For worship.

For something pure to corrupt.

And I was pure.

Not perfect

but real.

Soft.

Open.

Holy in my hope.

You desecrated that.

Smiled while you did it.

Made me feel crazy

for noticing the blood on your teeth.

And still,

still, I loved you.

Still, I stayed.

Still, I searched your eyes

for the man you pretended to be.

But he was never there.

Only the mask.

Only the act.

Only the echo

of a boy

too cowardly to tell the truth