Hunted

girlindarkwoods

Your growl tells me
you’re predator
and my tripping pulse
must be the siren
song of prey.

Alone in these dark
woods, in spite of
the moonlight, I can’t
tell from the shadows.

You breathe as if
to taste the air.
I hear your tongue
rasp against your teeth.

Though my trembling
hands twist in my skirts,
my thoughts chase
each other headlong
down the path
of wild fantasy.

Wandering, wondering:
is your hunger carnal
or sanguine; Are you
warm-blooded or cold–
werewolf or vampire–
hunting me?

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