the girl who whispered to you was violet and wanted your blood.
maybe you were a lover, or not just yet, maybe just a tall drink
spiked with fluorescent light. defend this, be the wolf, throw a punch
your heart suggested to your hands— but they trembled, tired to her,
and could only surrender fingerprints. moons sailed up and down
like white flags, glowing, but still you did not transform. so
instead, you chose to love her like a hound with no howl.


the girl who whispers to you strikes a tall drink with light, violet,
as quick as a cigarette. your heart tries to suggest a speed limit
but the punch falls as soft as elevator music. the night was too young
to chase this fast without missing any signs. but the girl says it wasn’t
the night, it was you: so young that full moon flags miss your war,
but if she breaks you, you could get there. she never did long to trap
a wolf, or a hound. her canines were sharp enough, and in the right
light, her grin strikes you as that of a fox— and your prints, the fowl.

— Liyana Dizzy, 24

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