Wolves


foaming at the mouth,
she tears herself away from wreckage,
laces her running shoes
and never looks back.
red eyes scan the town
in search of a hiding place
knowing damn well there isn't one-

and by the time she gets the courage to tilt her chin up
it gets clipped by a knife to the throat.

as her hands rip up the dirt
she howls
and arches her strained, frail back.

it's no use.
it never was.
never could be.
the cracks in her sides
retract in on themselves and attempt to heal,
a reminder of what she could be.
or could have been.

for once, she doesn't itch for hope-
she detests it.
for in the end
it only serves
as a disappointment.

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