Fenrir didn’t ask to be born a monster. He didn’t ask to be feared because he bore claws and fangs and a hunger deep as the sea. He did not bite the hand that fed him; he bit the hand that betrayed him. If you are told from the womb that you are a beast, how can they expect you to grow to be anything else?
The summer’s all forest fires and blood, drought and shitty poetry, but migrating geese offer a moment’s respite, a bleak surge of hope for approaching autumn.
Fiery One, I serve Your children;
take my energy and use it to strengthen them.
Mother Cat, I serve Your children;
take my love and use it to comfort them.
Eye of Ra, I serve Your children;
take my rage and use it to avenge them.
black as the Pit
and terrible as a demon
(as terrible as the night)
was Bagheera –
but even Kipling knew
a beast’s flesh bleeds red
and even a killer has a heart
(so don’t waste yours)
Tell me, my fickle gods of ink and steel, are you satisfied with this offering? Have I bled enough to please you, wavered on the edge of unconsciousness long enough to appease you? Are you honored by the brands, unalterable and permanent, that mark me as yours? Tears are precious, and plenty have I shed for you, but blood is the stuff of life. You know blood. You respect blood. That’s your language, after all. See? I can learn to speak it, too. I will become your Rosetta Stone written in red and black.
you aren’t crazy –
in the primal search for the Father
eternal protector and guide
I too would open my arms
and welcome the monster
if he offered family