Lycanthropy.

"There's little in this world
that a cup of tea can't cure"

he says with a smile
as he tends to my wounds,
the whistling kettle
drawing me out of my stupor,

realizing we are in this
forever,

but that we don't have to be alone.

The scars across his face
are unmistakable,

yet I feel a sense of calm
that he doesn't feel the need
to hide.

My arms bear similar scars,
the pain of transforming into
legends I never wanted to be
resurrected.

I change, against my will,
cursing the moon,
whimpering for control,

and he holds me steady,

his eyes letting me know
I am not defined by bloodlust,
nor by the sounds of terror.

The way I turn against humanity,
against myself,

is a violent hunger I can never
quite reach.

But I try, I try
to be so much more.

He finishes wrapping the gauze
around my arms,
placing them gently back
on my lap,

then pours from a cracked
teapot,

handing me a cup of
discordant aromas
- elderberry, clove, mint -
that seem to mix and blend
effortlessly when consumed.

He smiles again,
"drink up, you'll feel better.'

And I do.

At least for now, I do.