Each time I ventured out
into the wood,
I came back with less.
Each time I resolved to never return.
But my rusted throat
longed for the cloying sweetness
of forest flesh,
and my aching body stumbled deeper,
in turn.
Now I stand at the tree line,
contorted, deformed,
my soft underbelly scarred
by the claws of my own lust.
These familiar hollow paths
before me,
stole my woolen innocence,
leaving me only fur and fang.
And the grazing pasture of the flock
at my back
lies just beyond my jaws.