Blood Thirst

I have this terrible desire in me. I have not felt it this strong in years. It goes beyond the desire to cut and see blood. It is a desire for the blood itself. And not even a desire so much as a need. I've felt it coming on for over a week now. I've yet to give in, but I'm afraid that I will. And soon. I crave the amount of blood it took for me to write a letter to my father in my own blood with my own fingers as I did when I was 16. Would I taste the blood? Yes. Drink it? Unlikely. But the only way I know to describe this is to call it a thirst. As if my own eyes wish to drink it. And then there is the wickedly twisted desire to fill my ink well not with the powdered ink I bought, but with my own blood. To take the quill and write in my blood on the specialized paper. To seal it with the blood red wax and rose stamp. I always did have a love for roses. Roses have become associated with pain and blood in my mind. Once I called a friend Rose. Now, after the betrayal of friendship, when I see roses, I imagine them dripping with blood. The blood comes from the center of the flower, slowly bleeding out to coat the stem and thorns. No fresh blood adorns the thorns as one would think. They receive only secondary blood. I want blood. I need blood. Need the pain that follows. I crave it. I don't hold out much hope for resistance. Everything is falling to pieces around me. My mind calls for the blood to satisfy the pain that is tearing though the pitiful remains of my soul. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, for the tunnel does not end for the damned. And I am damned.