Werewolf
The witching hour sets in
dawn barely grasping the thin strands of the sky.
The moon is shining.
Its wide rays beam down like milk splashing into a bowl.
It's all I need
to rip my skin of my flesh
as coarse hair takes control.
Fingernails bend into claws as my spine snaps in half.
Bending over backwards
my eyes narrow.
I crack my neck to the side
gripping the cold ground.
if a werewolf screams in the woods alone
did it really make a sound?
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