The omega.
Always the last to feed, despite my part in the hunt. Always the butt of snickers, warning growls, scuffles—and the bites and flesh tearings that drive me apart. Always the omega.
All because I run to my own heartbeat. Because my howl is my own. Because the pack would rule me when I already rule myself.
So I make my own way to find my own range. Crossing the backcountry alone, my solitary hunting proves difficult. & at first, my full-moon howls go unanswered.
But only for a time.
Soon, I draw my own packmates—my own family. Then the one that was always the omega becomes who I always was.
The alpha.
night wind
the scent of deer
arrives
for dVerse’s Poetics: When it comes to Peer Pressure (hosted by Sanaa)
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