Don't Fear The Reaper

First time?

There's a time and place for things.
Fickle things.
Gentle things.
Hard things.
Intimate things.
Bloody things.

You've leaned into that motive of a 'time and place' for everything you've done.
Every breath.

Every movement discouraged with a small lull in your lungs, roaring like a tidal wave and roaring your blood in veigns that pounded.

Puma.

A large cat.
Tail lashing, hackles raised, claws out.
Snarling.
Teeth bared.

You got that name during basics. When it came time to climb ropes, you went up like a spider..
A drill Sergent caught you one day climbing up a tree like a cat.

Body braced and haunches tightened as he watched you meticoulsy leap from branch to branch like a silent proxy of a bride between unmovement and uncanny silence..

Puma.
That's what he called you.

You bit your tongue as you stared down at the book in front of you, 'The Song Of Achilles,' by a author, whom you've gone to read into the dephs your brain, Madeline Miller.

Your eyes danced upon the pages, filtered with a small bleary look as you felt your head knodding, in the commons room...

Book splayed on your lap as you read in silence of a fitted pit in your stomach- like jelly. Mounded and molded into a rotten coursed meat of the acid layer in your gut.
Pertaining your head to snap up again when you found yourself knodding off..
Before you decide to shove yourself out of your seat and stride through the halls to your room..

Fickle.
And domineering.
That's how the world was around you.
Always.
Shattered like a weighted anvil on glass layers of a picture frame - giving way to a life of 27 years that pertained to a smoking problem and the reliance of sleeping medication in order to rest.

Stemmed from the mirrored mannerism of anxiolytic natures in a poor life leading to the one you've led perhaps?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Leveling onto a world that may not be into your own control of others' events: but the fact stands high like Olympus and as mean as Zeus' thunder bolts.

You were not built for a world like this to be something soft and forbidding.
You were not some forbidden flower. Only Greek heroes chasted after in tales and mythology books.
No.
You ever more stick to the conclusion your Ouroboros; serpent eating itself.

Always. Always will be - departed from the testerone medications wracking your veigns to change you into a skin you can only hope to feel more comfortable in.
Vulnerable.

And so; the scars running cross your chest preached into an Icarion departure of a life you leave behind.

The walls of the base seemed to flaunt against you, mockery hard and heavy against a tale one would only be able to get out of melded tongues and soft whispers.
Something you will most likely get a bullet in the chest cavity before ever reaching.

Venomous fangs turn into something more suitable into the world of this life you've ever grown to stick into; snapping canines and pungent claws.
The smell blood held heavy on your tongue.

Inchor

Fit for a burned meal of offerings amongst the finest burning wines and tales of old.
Black stallions, the strongest ox's.
Fighting dogs.
No; more so a cat.
Stray little thing..

More so; you try to cling onto a fleece feeling, to hold something soft in you that you now longer have..your thoughts burn, against the walls that your boots scuffed against, thumping like silent galleries of a mockery to the manner you've come so far to forget: sacrificial lamb.
Young, innocent- strewn fleece turned red.