It starts with a tearing—quiet at first, like silk splitting in the dark—and then the howl builds in your spine, in your teeth, in the wet hinge of your jaw. You bite your pillow, your tongue, your lover’s shoulder. You bleed without knowing where from. People say you’re glowing, but they mean you’re dangerous. They mean you smell like something that could survive winter. You sleep with the window open even in February. You growl in your sleep. You are not soft anymore. You want to eat the moon and then barf it up just to say you did. You apologize for the claw marks in the hallway wall. You try to cage it. You try hot showers and cold Chardonnay. But the wolf does not care what you try. The wolf lives in the marrow, in the cells dedicated to your shame. You dress it up in your nicest jeans. You take it to work. You sign emails with “Best,” even when you want to sign them with blood. And still the wolf scratches, pacing the inside of your ribs, waiting for the one night you let it out.
About the Author
Mathieu Parsy is a Canadian writer who grew up on the French Riviera. He now lives in Toronto and works in the travel industry. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as BULL, Bending Genres, Maudlin House, Does It Have Pockets, and elsewhere. Follow him on Instagram at @mathieu_parsy.
