outside.

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.