when you cache all but the ribcage

I am the blood-drool:
the doe you stalked too long,
the skeleton you pricked with briars,
the one you marred with disease.

My breath fog dwindles
as the leftover sin of us
swallows my body whole
in the den of wolf teeth.  

I become the bile-soaked regret:
the bone-slurry you regurgitated
for a hungry someone else
to chew on and shit out.