newbornvisions

My body is so weak and I know it's from the bites. A lycanthrope with a self soothing tendency of taking chunks of flesh off it's own body. You always regret it but then you remember the taste. You remember the sting. Do I write aimed towards an invisible "you" because I hate to admit it's me? Is it embarrassing to do so? Who else could it be. You cannot write a memoir of an emaciated wolf without personally knowing the aching of it's stomach. I don't consider myself a victim here but I'd appreciate the pity none the less. My way. I want it. But I'll take the long road, and blow down little piggy huts along the way. And so I'll never get it. And at night when my bones turn to gelatinous toddlers, growing before your eyes and stumbling into their new form, My stomach stretches into a cavern with stalagmites of nausea. If only I'd learn to stop looking at the moon. The words of someone blameless, huh. Sure. I'll believe it for now. Because you're sick, and you can't keep up with your body. But you've been transforming for some time now, you think you'd get the hang of it. justshutupandeatthebacon.