Reaching a fever pitch

With no way to comprehend and assimilate the unnecessary battle scars I sustain in my daily fight for sustenance and respect, knowledge and self worth, I can feel the rips in the fabric of my spiritual being, and am overwhelmed by my soul's inability to bleed the white hot pain away. So I will wear the scars of my soul on my flesh, rendered in beautiful forms out of metaphors dark and rich as the cultural history I have awoken them from.

It amazes me what comes out of us when faced with the various circumstances of daily interactions, and even more so, the blinding animal tendencies we show in the face of reason and logic, every motion and thought rooted to animal needs, the scavenger, the pack animal that wants to fit in, the small of mind and body that fill their lack of presence with useless, abusive chatter to scare off the predators and competent alike. I have seen the wolf in our blood. I do not possess an inner bull, with a fearless relationship to moving matter, nor the desire of the wolf to be in a group and protect its ideals and roles with my life, it is with the crafty, shape-shifting  coercive creature of fables and fairy tales that I have found a resemblance, a similarity in our methodology of self protection.

Backed into a corner, I met the fox in my being, his sharp teeth grazing my tongue as I talk my way out, tail swinging, to continue building my life. If only the fuzzy redness of my anger and the iron taste of my inflamed pride didn't give me away, sending the dogs baying after me, tongues wagging. Sometimes I wish I was invisible, but my anger is often so palpable, it is it's own living creature with its own sharp, brazen tongue, and there is only so much an angry red creature can do to go unnoticed. More and more I find the fox in the place I am meant to be standing, and am torn in my logical self with right and wrong and good and bad, and deals are being made and allegiances forged by the fox while I wrestle with what I believe. It is lonely, the circumstances I find myself in, I have not even recognized the quick talking and fierce person filling my shoes and swinging my hips, an abrasive and bitter individual that I have little control over. With nothing and no one I can trust, no support, back up, or kind words to fill the gaping holes in my being, not even the momentary comfort of body contact to suggest I am not wholly and completely alone, all I have to rely on is the toothy grin of this clever creature, trusting instincts that cannot come from an logical place of rules and expectations, but have been lurking in the recesses of my fleshy human form, some deep secret memory of being rooted to the earth, and have been called forth into action with flashing and intelligent eyes.