Feed

 

I can feel the darkness.

The cold tickle on my skin,

pinprick of guilt, before

the itch to feed sinks

its teeth in

deep.

 

I hear

hot

blood

surging.

 

That primal urge in

my gut

is screaming.

 

Echoing.

 

Feed...

 

The darkness is

inching

over every pore,

like frog-marching

insects

searching every inch

for a

 

feast.

 

In my skin suit

I'm itching,

my heart skipping beats.

My humanity

Stripping…

 

Fading…

 

Away.

 

Gone.

 

Hope slayed.

 

The flesh feels

flayed from the bone,

the chill within, the moan

from lips of stone.

 

I hear blood.

 

Dripping

 

I hear the dreams of the sleeping

echoing a call of home.

 

My mouth salivating

at the meal awaiting.

 

As my mind clouds over,

 

inside I cry.

 

A passenger now.

 

Please don't let him drive.