THE WOLFMAN'S SIX FEET UNDER (N' DIGGING LOWER.)

my head is full of worms. the flesh gives way so easily, does it not? 

how daunting the summer heat is. i wish to lie in the cool dirt and return to the soil so that i may rot peacefully. or perhaps, allow my tattered soul rest. how monotonous it must be to be human.. it isn't much better while undead. true death is escaping into oblivion; i myself would like to understand being between two states at once.

as for my canine features; it is far more thought provoking.

i am not meant for such a body. none of it feels right. hands where paws are meant to be, furred ears that perk up and droop but are never ssen. but i've become so used to it. surely the wrongness must fade sometime?

it never really does. 

this wolf is and has been shackled; chained to a world it never asked to be assimilated into. wearing that human skin as tightly as it wears its fur. it wishes just for a moment to feel free; to feel its body rest while the wind grazes its fur.

and once those fade, i'm back where i started; being the same monotonous corpse with a head full of worms.