Unholy with Eyes like Wolves

by Morgan Dante

She wouldn’t be out of place as one of the sirens who tried to lure Odysseus and his men to their salty graves.

She’s pretty, and reminds me of a childhood friend, Zuzanny, who I once kissed, as girls do, under an apricot tree.

The strong eat the weak, and the weak are shamed for it; sometimes, the strong make the weak eat their own.

The terror, the executions, the hatred, the cannibalism, it’s normal. Sometimes, a mother rabbit must eat its young to survive.

I can’t stop drinking her in.

“Is it true you bit off a man’s tongue? Whose was it?” Most would ask how my day was going first.

It sounds like a lonely existence, but it’s true.

Perhaps this is what draws me to her, after all. If one has a chance to kiss an angel, no matter how terrifying, or if you turn to salt or ash, wouldn’t you?

I know she is more than her mask; I should know because I’m the one who rests it on her face.

I’m better, but I’m not healed. Healing, such a pleasant word for something that only means that the wounds continue on.

As a girl I felt like a girl, but I’m unsure if I’ve ever felt like a woman. Or if I have, it’s been a season that passes. At first, I considered this idea to be nonsensical. How can it be so, when my life has been defined by attempts at being a wife and mother, and I often feel like I’m at war with my womb?

“I’m not your girl.” “Aren’t you?”

“We can’t do this.” Petulantly, the wild wolf-maid in me says, my mouth twisting, “But you can fuck Vago and Danos.”

Shamelessly, I suck on my damp fingers; my arousal tastes like blood. Because it is.

“I hate these damn Catholics. Excluding present company.” “Thank you.

I daresay Noémie having this otherworldly connection with the woman who killed her and others concerns me the most. I grasp her need for blood; I don’t grasp this.”

Does the devil ever think of his work as proof of his love for God?

Unlike a saint, the blood I’m bathed in isn’t mine. Or, I suppose, it is; I’ve claimed it.

Fuck me. Enter me. Be me.

I’m yours. I’m your beast. Your monster. Held so tenderly between your hands. With me, you’re safe; you’re the only safe one.

Our bed is red; our lips are red. If love is a vineyard, we aren't the vines; we’re the swollen, sensitive grapes. My arousal is blood. Her lips are red with blood. Hers. Mine.

I’m glad he’s dead. I would do it again a thousand times.

“My beloved, I'm worried about protecting you.”

I think that I must go to Erzsébet, but I can’t, they’ve wounded me, they’ll cut off my head, I can’t protect her if I’m truly dead— I have a lover. Hell will have to wait.

Sometimes, we need monsters to protect us. I’m your beast, Erzsébet.

“God,” I cry, holding her corpse. “God.” No one answers.

I won’t bathe the entire world red, but to revenge my injuries, yes, there will be blood.

With my wet fingers, I break apart his hideous sneer, teeth flying on the rug and clattering with force against the walls and mantel. It takes me a long while to stop, after he’s been dead for minutes.

When I was a girl, I’d worry over a misplaced word or an averted eye, possible slights that would have Mother’s mouth set in a firm line. I don’t regret anything at all. We all stare over his ruined body. It’s beautiful.