Tears, blood, blurred vision, spit, rope burns, char marks, welts, red flesh on red flesh, swelled veins pressed into holes ready or not.

There are days that these things are all I can think about.  I might be listening to you bitch about your job or talking up your weekend or your new car, but the reality of it all lies a few layers behind, deep inside my skull.  It sits like a toad in my frontal lobe, stroking my hypothalamus, generating a deep emptiness in my stomach that can only be filled by an indulgence in flesh.