Wet grass

the first thing i saw was a dark shadow under my skin. i thought it was a mole until i saw it move.

i woke up in a pool of blood. my own, thank god. the snout was fully formed, cold eyes staring at me from the darkness in my stomach. i reached down to slide an intestine back into place and it chomped at me.

forepaws dangled from the cavity, scratched my thighs raw. the head strained against the walls, and the hole in my gut stretched up to my ribs, gaping open. peering down i saw a wolf's face covered in viscera, black fur matted in yellows and reds. we looked at each other, and it lapped gently at my chin.

i am on my side now, watching the wolf climb out of the flayed skin that used to be my body. it looks back at me for only a second, then it walks away. i can't move my arms anymore. everything is dark. wet grass beneath my paws.

Wolfhunt

the most acclaimed werewolf hunter was a vampire. although vampires and werewolves have coexisted for centuries, several vampires joined ranks with humans during the early stages of the wolfhunt. one such hunter, dracula the second, is said to have slain over 200, and was even granted audience with the human king. he was by far the most decorated hunter, but the exact count is unclear as most records were burned after his death. when the wolfhunt was over the vampires were next, and dracula the second was slain with the sword that knighted him.

Thinking about it

fuck. i'm thinking about it again.

the window shatters and i land on ice.

moment of lucidity.

someone is under me.

i gnaw on bones, chew on meat.

we are the same, him and i. his entrails sway in the wind, my shirt flutters, we are both very passionate about sports. we are both wearing torn clothing. my claws redecorated him, as i have been redecorated. i see myself in him. pale. covered in snow. missing pieces. he tried to complete himself with money. nice car. gold leaf. i sate myself with him. he is no longer hungry. neither am i.

moment of lucidity.

i am home.

the snow mingles with broken glass, pooling on the floor.

more to clean tomorrow.

i am exhausted.

but i am no longer angry.

i am done thinking about it.

Under the moon

your uncle shows you wolf heads on the mantle. your pastor serves communion on a silver plate. hooligans and policemen dismember their catch of the day. even when the pack is joined by beasts in tattered hunter's garb, crosses and robes gleaming in the moonlight. nobody remembers the night.

the werewolf is a monster and nobody wants to be a monster. that's the natural order of things, we tell ourselves, locking the doors when the full moon approaches, we all know what might happen if we step out of line. but for some reason there's always someone out there in the woods at night. it's weird, isn't it? it's like he has nowhere better to be. doesn't he know it's dangerous out here?

when you sink your fangs into his chest he cries. fur races across his body and his face twists into a sharp, dangerous smile. you lie there for a while, under the moon. just the two of you, just for a night.

Wolves

teeth pour out of open wounds

claws rake through my gut

there are wolves inside of me

wolves in wolves in wolves

And then it bites you

and then it bites you

streams of molars fall out before sharper teeth grow in

black fur sprouts over you

your body convulses with new muscles and your frame shifts

claws tear your fingers open

your neck bulges and slides to the right with a crunch

another wolf head pushes out of a cavity and you make eye contact with yourself

and then it bites you

a part of yourself that you can't control bites down on your snout

you hunch forward and your back cracks as it contorts even further

black fur falls out in patches as another coat grows in, shinier, longer, wilder

sharp claws fall out and drop into a pool of blood

daggers stabbing their way through your paws

your face stretches to make room for a second row of teeth

the second head whimpers and relaxes its grip on you, laps at the blood

and then it bites you

Nobody knows I’m a lycanthrope

ten years later a single mother with a "nobody knows i'm a lycanthrope" shirt picks up a newspaper at the grocery store. "royal wedding" and "summer body diet" and "werewolf activist dead in hunger strike". she drops a pack of discounted diapers on the belt and gestures towards the counter, at the monthly prep of wolf-be-gone. she heads out of the store, baby stroller in hand, and feels the cold breeze of the night on her fur. someone bumps into her, a teenager. she stares at the bite marks on his neck and scowls, bares her own sharp and bloodied teeth. disgusting fucking vampire, she thinks to herself.

Morsel

like, come on. a chance encounter with a big muscular stranger. in the middle of the night. away from home, somewhere dark. suddenly your world is turned upside down and instead of the big dependable breadwinner you're a little morsel. preyed upon, toyed with, forced to submit to something powerful, untamed. the fang penetrates the skin. you bleed, and he licks the wound. his essence draws into you, forever changing your seat in the world. urges that you hide from your family, your friends. strange desires. you can keep the beast at bay for now, but on a full moon, one night, it will overtake you and you too will become a predator, or prey, hunting for sport, or with a pack. free from the shackles of the city, you will roam the woods, unburdened, unrestrained. and they will try to put you down. you have become abomination. too dangerous, but weak enough to be hunted, to be eradicated before you corrupt more as you were no doubt corrupted. they declare war upon you. just one bite.