Wolves die alone.

Charlotte told me once that if I was an animal I’d have been a wolf, so did Heather, Eve, Marwa.

I used to joke about it, tell them that they probably think so because of my hairy nature. It’s not a joke anymore and if it was it’s not funny.

I’m losing track of all the failed attempts to be in a relationship, it all blends late at night when I lay on my bed, eyes wide open, and all I recall is a mixture of perfumes, skin scents, soft voices some are high pitched and some are low, some are sweet and some are sour, even the ones I got to taste at some point, it all blends into a stomach turning blend.

I love wolves for their independence and intellect, their bravery and loyalty for the few they select as friends, and their determination to bring down their enemies even if it was the last thing they’d do.

I used to remember the times I’ve been compared to a wolf with a proud flattered grin, I only forgot one thing I read about wolves a long time ago, a wolf’s senses are strong, a wolf never forgets, a wolf lives amongst the pack, but a wolf dies alone…

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