We are all calling
out to the other voices who yell,
wanting to be heard,
to be told
that silence is the enemy,
not a normality or a friend.
Do you hear us?
My father told me that the wolves talk
when they scream at the moon,
because they see something
they cannot obtain,
and that they are asking the others
to come, armed with fangs
and blood hot with desire
to tear down the wretched thing.
I am a wolf with hollow eyes,
an enraged skeleton cloaked with skin
that lurks in the shadowed places, panting
as I desire it, desire him,
the celestial taunter who glares unseeingly through me,
unknowingly killing me.
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