I shake. Teethe on cantaloupe. Guzzle expired milk.
I wait. My tailbone shoves through bruised skin.

I play dead on the dog bed. It’s not a difficult act.
Cocoon in warm blankets, grow fur, be monstrous.

Massage my scalp. I’ll be so sweet and harmless.
Ignore the paling limbs. Ignore the bloodless grin.

A pink microwaveable neck warmer spins
on the heat tray, ballerina in the radiation. 

The smell of food, the smell of rice bags, cotton.
The smell of my wrists. The wolf mouth, the sick.