How the Wolf Fell to Her Teeth

He came for me beneath a blood-split moon,

the air thick with the scent of wanting.

I heard his breath before his name,

felt the ground bow beneath the sound of him,

that promise of ruin shaped like a heartbeat.

We circled,

shadow devouring shadow,

each of us pretending to be the hunter.

The forest held its breath,

branches bending to listen

as the space between us burned.

He called it pursuit.

I called it prophecy.

Because what is desire

if not recognition disguised as hunger?

When he lunged, I didn’t run.

I bared my throat and smiled,

knowing the hunt was already over.

He tore through me like prayer through silence,

mouth tasting of iron and absolution,

and I bit back,

not to wound,

but to remember the shape of my own hunger.

Every touch a confession,

every gasp a surrender to the ancient script

our bodies have always known:

two creatures finding God

in the act of undoing each other.

In the end,

he lay beside me, shivering,

eyes no longer wolf but man again,

and I, the supposed prey,

still panting,

still tasting the wild in my mouth.

He whispered, "You caught me".

But I only laughed,

blood and moonlight dripping from my tongue.

"No", I said,

"we caught each other".

And in that breath between heartbeats,

before dawn rewrote the world,

I realised,

every hunt worth surviving

ends with both hunters

killed beautifully.