Lovely Wendigo

(Read slowly)

The inanities of my actions consume me- as I consume you.

Your blood spills over my lips, down my jaw, and my neck

while your flesh slips down my throat like nectar.

Your veins, stringy and strong; like floss between my teeth as all their sweetness is being squeezed out and into my mouth.

Your muscles are chewy between my jaws;  savory on my tongue and are greedily gulped down my throat like ambrosia.

Your strangled screams are echoing off my cavern walls;

but not reaching any ears.

You know this,

yet you don't stop.

I have broken all your limbs to splintered toothpicks;

beyond saving even with the best treatment.

They'd have to be chopped off,

and yet you still try to worm away.

Is life so precious that you'd prolong your pain?

Is this.

Is living through this,

worth it?

They all say "yes"

They all say that they want to live because they have a life to live.

A life to go back to.

But it seems that,

After they've met me

their life ends either way;

The endless nightmares;

The constant paranoia;

The everlasting ghost pains;

The ever persistent PTSD that haunts you night and day.

It all gets to be too much and it seems that they have no choice but to fall in love,

With me

a Lovely Wendigo.

They come back,

one way or another,

they cannot- will not- forget this place.

And I finish them without a single scream.

They smile;

They stroke my head;

They laugh as if something tickles.

They thank me.

I hate it.

I hate them.

I hate being so lovely.

I hate being loved.

I hate forgiveness.

I will not let you go-

like them.

I will not let you love me-

like them.

I will not let you survive;

like them.

A quick movement;

a swipe.

Your piercing screams turn into quiet gurgles.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish on land;

filling with what's left of your blood and spilling over your lips.

You flop onto your back and-

you glare.

With the last of your life,

you hate me;

you loathe me;

you wish to kill me.

You taste so good.

Your muscles are warm.

Your blood hot from your anger.

Your tissues not soured by any alcoholism that follows any encounter with me like a dark cloud.

Nor is your blood filled with the milk of the poppy- nor tarted with the taste of crystal meth.

Your muscles gained texture from being taut so long and taste sweeter with the adrenaline your adrenal glands supplied to them only seconds before.

Ambrosia.

Thank you for hating me.

Thank you for wishing to kill me.

Thank you for dying today.

I will never be lovely again.

I will never be loved again.