It's flight or fight,
And my eyes are wide
My mouth is full of unfiltered air
And my ribs are heaving
And my hair is bristled and prickly
An adrenal being, we are!

I could have told you that fighting was foreplay,
But I couldn't stop staring at the blood on my knuckles.
It's these brutal consistencies that make me a thing you should despise,
But you will not flip the latch free.
My osteums are humming still,
With the quake of your hold
I should want to stay,
But my bones want to leave,
And I go where they go.

It would be wrong to say that the steam that rises
From an open body in the cold is the greatest relief
Which is why I say it, probably
With a mouth full of blood,
And I leave the meat to rot

Little, little grey fox
Out in the cold
Can you see past your nose?