“Devour the moon,” they tell me.
A wolf stands on my back and croons of my ill-fated refusal.
My eyes are saucers decorated with shortbread made of matted fur and candied baby pictures.
A remote tower is growing rapidly from the underbrush of my curled pubic hair.
The beast at my neck salivates in profound hunger.
“My Princess”, it coos as ribbons of drool decorate the alter of my shoulders, “You are starving for claws to chew on. Let me give you mine and be soon indebted to health.”
I sit still at the window overlooking my tiny fuzzy kingdom and eat red jam that pours from underneath my lace petticoats.
A tingle ripples down my eyelashes and a bristled tongue laps ferociously at my shame.
Womanhood is messy and even animals shy away in fear of our blood.
My blood is your blood.
My blood is my blood.
My blood is you.
Feast at my moon.
Howl at my sky.
Climb my tower.
Kiss me tenderly until my aching quiets.
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