seedlessfruitless:

My sheepskin is dripping with oil,
pulling on my spine,

Making it concave and
filled with stalactites.
It wears down on me:

Heavy,

Bending bones,

Breaking bones,

Bleeding bones,

but  without it,
a nude hypothermia awaits,

hiding in the wolf’s shadow:
an emboldened voice howls at a falsified moon,

and somehow it sounds like mine,

but colder.