I shed my clothes at night when I begin my feast.
My thighs pant with exertion while I suck blood from my teeth.
Afraid to spread my bruising, I face away
from stuffed animals.
When morning comes, the dress I wear exaggerates my form:
My hairy paws and natal claws continue untransformed.
Disgust runs me to an empty field to howl
for my life.
Still, my knightly obligation pays no mind to body;
I'm forced into the sun because I acted on this folly.
Living is a conscious choice
of career suicide.
"You cough into your hands and wonder why you're sick."
Shoulders are barren canvases and nothing will ever stick.
"Still," I whisper, and wear my sorries
like burn holes.