when the wolf comes
i cannot stand:
i fall to my feet,
prostrate.

only part of what mars my blood
is fear, caught in a current of
desire—longing—pumping—coursing—
through soft tissue, forcing me to
bleed the colors onto paper—
a knife turns them red.

i want to be devoured until
every last piece is gone until
my bones, bare, glisten.
i am exposed: the meal is who i am,
what i've been hiding beneath my skin.
i want to give it all up screaming,
eaten alive.