When she holds her breath she hears
the thrumming that fills the space between
his lungs, the heart she drug her teeth to taste,
with thirsty eyes and twisting lips because
even miles and miles could not keep him from her.

When she licks her lips
she relishes the red of his insides, the ardent
viscosity that sang for her carving nails,
to pour it out, she knows if he could only see the
wolf he made of her, he’d pull himself open first.

And when she turns her back
to the glaze of ghostly moonlight that
bathes his paling limbs a sweeter porcelain,
splintered shards left behind, picked away
from ivory bones, she reminds herself the
dying night is hungry and cannot go unfed.

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