a thirst for blood

bukowski wrote about a bluebird. a fragile thing in his chest, a creature of trembling feathers and songs not meant to be sung aloud.

but me - i have no bird. i do not have feathers or softness. no songs.

what lives in me is teeth.

a brute. a thing with jaws and muscle and a hunger far older than me. it sleeps in the bricks of my chest. it waits, always waits.

i perfume him. i pour cologne over his name; mint, and citrus to mask the blood beneath my nails. when i pass through town, they only see the ambroxan. they smell the orientals. they speak kindly to me. they do not know. 

but he thrashes sometimes. he kicks against the ribs. he whispers in the blood. but i say, "stay. you cannot come out. you will spoil the calm. you will bring the storm, and i am too soft to weather it."

i am fragile, too human to let the animal breathe. so i soothe him. i lie beside him in the dark. i hush his name and keep him company. sometimes, when the moon is right and the town is sleeping, i let him stretch.

i say, "i know you're there. please - just wait."

but lately, he screams for blood and i, who once feared him, have started listening. 

so tomorrow, while the town gathers for worship, while they kneel and sing to gods who never held monsters in their bellies, i will walk alone. i will follow the scent of rot through the woods and find something warm and breathing and lost and i will slit its throat. i will watch the blood pour like wine and i will not cry.

i will offer it to him. to the thing i've caged. to the creature who has kept me awake for years.

i will let him drink.

and when he lifts his head - dripping, trembling - i will not run.

because this, too, is me. because the mask was never more than a paper. because the gentle man in town was only ever pretending not to hunger.

when the night comes, and the moon sighs, and the screams rise from every window, do not mourn me.

the man is dead. he died quietly beneath the old oak tree. buried in the graveyard where they put things they refuse to understand.

but the beast - the beast is dancing now. and he remembers everything. 

let them gather. let them wail. this is the price of not listening when the quiet ones begged you not to look too closely at their smile.