Weasel journal

I can feel bloodlust rising in my gut and groin.  It comes every once and a while, always unexpected, always sudden as a slap across the face.  It’s hard to explain the transformation, precisely.  It is animalistic, carnal, raging heat in its purest form.  It curves my hands into claws, itching to grasp onto a body and claim it.  It clenches my jaw with the inexplicable desire to bite down on soft flesh, bite down to the bone and not let go.  It makes me want to tear, rip apart, reduce, immerse, consume with every pore.  I want to swallow someone whole and for their last human breath to be a gasp of raw pleasure.

It makes me wild.

When it comes, it dominates my mind, and I can think of little else.  Images of teeth tearing through flesh wash across my mind and my heartbeat quickens.  The feral grin of a wolf leaves me heady with desire.  It knows what it is.  It takes what it needs, and that is all.  I imagine its hot musky breath, a flash of ivory fangs before it strikes my throat.  Pure, precise, and beautiful.

It makes me feel radiantly alive.

I want to leave nothing behind but “tracks in clay, a spray of feathers, mouse blood and bone.”  To be taken as I am, my body consumed completely, teeth embedded in yielding flesh.

What else is there?