My hunger grows.
Aching.
Gnashing.
Ravenous.
An urge that will not be appeased by meek servings.
I indulge in the sensation of consumption.
The arousal of shredding of flesh against my teeth.
It's flavor is nearly orgasmic.
The pure rapture of blood spattering on my face.
The excitement of lapping it up.
I thrive, knowing this feast is all for me.
Mine alone, to gorge myself with.
It's gnawing at me, the pain stinging so good.
Like extracting an infected thorn from your flesh.
The euphoric release.
But it continues to fester.
Itching.
Always begging for more.
More.
Your body isn't enough, I'll absorb your energy too.
Your soul.
Your essence.
I will devour every last part of you.
But you will never be enough.
Nothing ever will.
Because my hunger is growing.
Growing out of me.
Swallowing me up.
Because it is an itch that will not be satisfied by petty offerings.
And you are, indeed, petty.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Thoughts
PoetryA collection of mostly free verse poems and short stories. Sometimes it is nice to simply clear your head. *Trigger warnings: descriptions of disturbing themes such as: body horror, death, interactions with the uncanny, topics in biology, and suici...
