Werewolf By Clare J. M. Patterson


It started age 11, with the cramps
white hot and new
Deep in your stomach
Like something died, like something grew

Then came the hair, up under and between the legs and then
It spreads across the chest
Your mother hands you razors, creams and wax
But every time that you remove it it grows back

Your fingernails, too, grow
Long and pale as finger bones
Your sister paints them in pale pinks, bright reds, they are
As sharp as knifes and able to
Caress, or slice

And of course, you are pulled
By the moon, the tides and by
The warmness in your blood they bring each month;
And when the moon waxes to her peak, and shows her full, round face
You know it’s time to hunt

All girls, they say, are scared to walk alone at night –
Not me
Not with my smile, not with my teeth
You think of penetration, I think of guts,
And when you drag me by the wrist so some dark alley where you plan to rut
Like animals,
I have something more violent in mind and I
Will tear you open with these claws,
I’ll leave you sprawling on the floor and calling for your mother and
before I get too gory I shall pause

But beware
I eat men like rodents
I eat men like air.

By Clare J. M. Patterson


Clare J. M. Patterson is a writer and poet based in Glasgow, Scotland. A student of English Literature and Celtic History, their work draws on both literary and folkloric storytelling traditions, and often focuses on femininity and non-binary gender identity.’

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