Wolf

Code in the pillow bottled in the red, I go to sleep stiff, wake up with no memories. The sheets are rigid, the bedframe weak, the floor uneven, the steps endless, the doors always almost shut and refusing to stay open. The water is dry, fruit tastes like these bowels and their burbling acid. The netting between my mind and skull is stretched too tight, grey matter creased and wrinkled, achy and brittle. Today is to the waste. Yesterday is forgotten. Tomorrow will be of equal significance. All thrown to the code I could never read, to the pillow wet and soggy, doused in bile and liquid crimson as thick as bleach and pungent as a summer of garbage. Next week the moon will rise and my spine break through my skin again with bones sharp as screeches of the deepest night. Terror will reign in its ominous silent way. The cold will descend to calm all as I shake the darkness with mania and lust. The wolf will wake.