Yearn | Hannigram

reach inside

It is not a hunger. It is not a want or a desire, not anything but a low, hot yearning hidden somewhere, buried beneath layers of morality. Skin and blood masking the guilt. Some go their whole life never acknowledging it, never succumbing to it. Most do. Potential is never reached and ignored in favor of ease and security.

      The select few, who do indulge, never go back. Recovering or reforming is not an option. Once you fall into the wade of the stream, you are either caged or kept in an entirely different prison. A prison of smoke and mirrors and of isolation.

      Notoriety only comes after death. Or after they catch whiff of the blood on your hands, the death seeping from every pore. The murder that clings to your skin will be shown the light, moon turning it black as void. They see that stain as an infestation of the heart or the mind. They corral and castrate what they don't understand, rip out the beating, bleeding black heart from its rib cage. Once it's gone, what's there to do?