the tenderness of wolves

If I had but the choice I would walk into that wilderness of white and lay before them. I imagine that they would come and inhale the very blood from my veins through my thinning flesh as I lie, blinded by the cold and the sky that somehow blends into the irrecoverable colors of the landscape. I think of you as the stench of their sweetness and leftovers combined, pass over my own breath. I can only hope that I am a piece of meat like any other so that it makes the process all the less painful. They may shred and rip through all that amounts to my entire self and I doubt that they would reach or come to know places that you seemed to have stained. An animal of blood and bones left to be devoured by whatever dares to have it. I remind myself that I was the one that walked into the wilderness. I lay myself down with a knowledge that only those who hope to be eaten could ever muster. The colors are irrecoverable here. This is not your fault. This is not my fault. I whisper to them as they brush nose to fingertip. I am not to be taken. I gave myself to you. You are not wronging me. You are playing the part that I gave you. I am playing the part that I gave myself. I am glad that you will never know the wilderness and stopped at the edge of the forrest where you belong.