Still Here

The wolf didn’t heal the way stories claim,
no clean return, no closing frame.
The past still knocks, still says his name,
still haunts the dark, still fans the flame.

Some nights the forest shifts its shape,
a snapped back sound, a too fast scrape.
He knows the truth, but learns too late,
the body freezes before escape.

That’s trauma’s trick: it overprotects,
keeps firing alarms long after the threat.
Not weakness. Not failure. Not neglect.
Just a nervous system that won’t forget.

He thought that strength meant standing alone,
all teeth and distance, all steel and bone.
But something changed when the fire stayed low,
when someone sat and didn’t go.

No fixing hands. No urgent speech.
No “you’re safe now” just out of reach.
Just presence close enough to teach,
the shaking heart it didn’t breach.

He still startles. Still scans the door.
Still hears the war in a closing drawer.
But now there’s breath beside the roar,
a quiet here that asks for more.

He doesn’t howl to warn the night,
doesn’t bare his teeth to prove his fight.
He howls to mark a living light,
to say I’m here. I’m holding. Stay.