surgical spite

Avert your eyes, and a wolf may snatch the sparrow from the sky as she flies by singing your song. You've got to try to shape your words in such a way that they grind like knives out through your teeth. And stab the wolf. He hungers for silence. He hungers. Don't feed him anything. Just stab that wolf in the heart. And if he dies, your thoughts were worth enough to blot the sky in a swirl of surgical spite. Go on and try. Shape every word in such a way that it grinds like knives out through your teeth. To stab the wolf. Let the hilts roll from your tongue, stain the soot red at your feet. Grind down the blades til they're dull. Cuz you know they'll still stab just as deep.