Tell me that tomorrow, when I itch so badly I bleed, live with a sense of doom, look at you and see the grave. I hate how you always cover things over, pretend that winter is summer. It's as much my fault as yours.

You can't deny it can you?
It's crazy to think I'm okay in these latter days. The ferocity of this itch, the inflammation, is an indicator of deep disease. Tolerance for alcohol is strong as ever, the skin is white, so it's not liver failure. Ergo cancer. Somewhere.

It's you, I know, dying there, a wolf ever thinning, claws and marble, this hypnotic spin and the beat of my heart. I feel so...hollowed out. There yet not, the blood rushing through my body in a pulsing roar, fangs and face synchronized to my heart beat, the ever present itch crawling in slow oozing sensations of exquisite fire beneath my fur. My clothes lay in a sullen pile on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, the thought of wearing them makes me wretch, and as I fight the surging urge to vomit over the sink the running water from the spigot takes me away in a frothing susurrus. I close my eyes, the world spins.
So very fucking sick.
They're all over me, the lesions. I can't get away. I'm going to die.
Legoshi-
I see her, a phantom in a sunbeam, there between the shower and the vanity, wrapped in a towel. She looks me up and down, Haru, ears back, eyes sad. She touches my chest, says she's sorry, yet when I reach forth to touch her face she's gone. I stare wide eyed at swirling dust, my empty paw, mouth full of the taste of blood. I am-
I'm alone.
The tooth brush is red, wrapped in scarlet rivulets, the faucet sends gallons of water down the drain, and standing there it all seems sad, so fucking hopeless, me and death and the distant chirp of birds beyond misted glass. Spring is a monolith, mocking sun slanted time.
Why?
I guess everyone asks.
-
Maybe the future. I wrote it wondering, dream it from time to time in a nightmare scintillate.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uaMA1eufPyo

It's all gone. Where are you?
Nowhere.