I vomit blood-soaked stones.
That writer--so nurturing--
I ate her children.
Such soft, somber things!
Free and fresh and fleshy.
But she fooled me: while I dreamt
She sliced my stomach
And sewed in stones.
I noticed no weight 'til waking.
Do I still want those kids?
They sound too sweet for me.
But then, my core is already ruined.
I crawl to the well
Clumsy, trembling, blood-stained--my own--
I'll never run again, I realize,
But I'm more afraid to hold still.
The weighty wolf, stone-starved.
My reflection--she howls laughter,
Wolf in sheep's clothing, that prophet:
"Pound your paws with flour,
Thrash your throat with honey,
Live your lies and swallow
What purity will let you near;
But you will rest, and you will wake,
And find yourself
Still a monster. Always a monster."
My belly grates--my flesh is too yielding--
But flesh was always my weakness.
There's the vomit again.
I look down a deep, dismal well:
No source of light, but I'm thirsty
From choking back my own blood.
I lean close to drink
I fall in,
And I'm drowning. I drown.