You never wanted to be the girl who cried wolf. How selfish it is to tell someone about the beast you hold inside when you rarely fear devourment.
It stalks and growls but you pay it no mind, surely if it were a true threat it would have consumed you by now. You know you’re tempting its nature by spilling red from your carelessly curated yet carefully concealed lines.
The louder its howls get the more you try to assuage it by tearing yourself apart. Maybe if it sees the damage you’re willing to inflict upon your being it will stop baring its teeth so often, satisfied by knowing it’s more in control than you think.
How bad is bad enough? Is it worth mentioning if danger doesn’t usually feel imminent? If you don’t believe the wolf will feast on you, do you tell anyone you keep receiving dinner invitations?
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