The Streets After Dark

She'd always fantasized about walks, 

Through dark, deserted streets of the town, 

Where street lamps cast sinister shadows on asphalt, 

The buildings threaten to topple over, bricks dilapidated and worn. 

She'd dream of following stray mongrels to their lairs,

Cheering on their skirmishes,

The cacophony from their barks music to her ears. 

The whispers she thought she heard around every corner never aroused her fears,

They were apparitions, she thought, they meant no harm, 

They mourned their unrequited dreams - they nursed festering sounds craving for some balm. 

She'd pass on, leaving the soliloquising spirits alone, 

As the breeze sent tingles of pleasure down her bare arms, 

Each kernel of pollen swept in it felt like kin, her very own. 

A decade older now, she's no more as fond of the darker parts of town, 

Her wanderlust firmly damped by that inexplicable need

To constantly look over her shoulder, 

Now that she knows that this street,

Is prowled by much more than strays. 

She always appeals to a male friend to escort her home on late nights, 

For now, she knows better than to assume the whispers belong to formless spirits. 

She knows the voices belong to werewolves, 

Except these need no full-moon night, no excuse for malevolence, 

Except that they masquerade as humans.

She knows their quarry of choice is her tribe- that of women, 

That they stalk their prey indiscriminate of colour, of creed, of age, 

She's now 'sensible' enough to never leave her arms bare, 

She knows better than to 'titillate' the wolves, for should she be scarred, she knows sympathy would be rare. 

For the breeze no longer placates her towering rage, 

Rather it sends chills down her back, serpentine coils of it settling around her spine, 

Life had taught her caution - one misstep, and you could come plummeting straight from cloud nine. 

For her alertness, though, she hadn't been left completely unscathed. 

She remembered the day still, five years ago, 

When her parents had stepped out for their date night, 

Leaving her favourite uncle behind as a chaperone. 

From the unfamiliar, hungry gleam in his usually generous eyes, 

And from everything that followed, she'd learnt, 

Not to blame the streets and the darkness alone, 

For the wolves had found their way home.