how to make art that no one likes

There is a wolf that lives in Lindsey, slender, with a heavy, muscled back, the forehead and the muzzle sleek and every drum thump pulse of blood purposed to the hunt, fed on the darkest places within her, where blood coagulates to black, the wolf that lives in Lindsey sits heavy and large within her fragile skin, she is breeding the wolf at each breath a wolf a wolf a wolf again the wolf, a hard and angry wolf within her, she cages it within her ribs but winter is coming and soon she will freeze, freeze to breaking, shearing, snapping, her brittle bones some futile pen while all the while the wolf that live in Lindsey knows that winter is coming, winter is coming, the crest of its chest furred with coarse, sharp hairs, and each of them growing against Lindsey’s skin, piercing through the fragile drum of her breasts and her skin, it howls her throat for her when she is sleeping, it grunts and growls and licks the roof of her mouth with its abrasive, sharpened tongue, this wolf that lives in Lindsey knows no fear or hunger now, for it has found her, stalked her, chased her, worn her with its loping gait, let her explode adrenal high, let her hoof clatter the cliffs the ice the broken quarry waiting only for the rush and then the kill, at last devouring that wolf in woman’s clothing.