What struck me in the uncanny image wasn’t the premise of an unremorseful wolf in lamb’s wool, but the way its appearance seemed out of place and strikingly unsettling. Its mouth, torn into a wicked smile. Its eyes, empty and hollow. The borrowed skin on the lamb looked more alive.

I’ve seen monsters in familiar shapes. At first, I accepted it as a natural order. Like the way a rabbit feigns death under a wolf. Or rather, something more vulnerable and easier to gnaw. A fawn. Cowering before a predator that doesn’t bite to feed. It wants to feel its teeth breaking skin. It wants to feel your bones crushing.

We usually describe monsters with otherworldly words. Inhumane. Unfeeling. Pessimistic and daunting. Almost imaginary, so their existence rarely takes form. Mutating like spirits. Constantly changing forms. When you stop seeing the void, another creeps from behind, repeating the same words.

Repeating the same words meaning monsters also haunt. Attachment is a strange thing. And love that isn’t love distorts. Look closely, and intensely to see grotesque forms. The truth displeases, and carrion birds pick on flesh for so long. Then flee when the wounded reaches back, asking for comfort.

You don’t want just anyone around. You want someone to hold. Someone to carry and not consume. Clinging not from the pain of a wound but merely to stay close. Your thoughts don’t feed you enough. The familiar territory is gloomy. There’s comfort in the pressure of something warm. Even when the crimson warmth is spilling.