He refuses to remove his shirt,
the sleeves have been cut off
I've hidden every knife in the house, though none belong to us.
I've never seen a body, a body like his.
the body of a wolf
mutilated, deranged,
the blood.
the talk of terminal bliss.
cross hatching skin through skin, motion etched neatly.
I try to read the thought pattern carved into his chest
his stomach, his thighs
his bloated purple lips.
sweetly, I blame myself.
some nights we are beautifully manic,
we frolic in our bodies
majestic as our love allows.
today, we are only damaged, ugly.
think of the children outside.
