The fabric is horrifically stretched, trying to cover bone. Seams splitting against spine and ribs, toes and shins. The seams split— they are not meant for running, or sitting in a parlor, or a romantic walk on the beach.

To look like them is to peel back flesh, to unmake yourself. Peeling back the red, the wet, the white tendons and the wild fur that is your birthright, just to drape a hollow, dead thing over living pain.

The claws don’t strike at the unwitting audience; they instead turn on their own chest, scraping ribs, digging deep. Self-destruction. The wolf inflicts their own pain just for having teeth at all.