The Wolf Confesses
by John Grey
I live for
each full moon,
when my heart
is its most heartless,
my naked body
is a mass
of unkempt hair,
my humanity
is just dead matter
in my skull.
My moans may emerge
from the gloomy sacs
of my lungs,
but they are born of the scars
on my legs, my arms,
the scabs of ancient bites
from the one
I would become.
Here, in the woods,
I have no thoughts,
only instinct,
no lust
that isn’t drenched in blood.
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