Stigmatic Young Gods

He’s a cliché.

The all too solemn, emotionally vampiric type. He’s the guy burdened by the nose ring, the deviant sex habit, and the penchant for poisoning his patients. He’s the Dr. I-Know-Every-Thing who smirks at you across the parking lot and makes your skin crawl.

So you scurry away and keep your head down because neither that thin veneer of civility nor the toothily salacious smile can quite manage to fool you.

The man is an animal, a mean, misogynistic machine made of blood and sinew and you know it. You know it with a certainty that makes your teeth hurt because a devil knows another devil from miles and miles away.

The secret you carry.

The secret you cradle in the deep darkness of your being.  It’s that the curious pounding in the cavity where your heart used to be, has nothing to do with fear. The man is an animal, but you’re just another hunter. You already know what that mad light emanating from the depths of your car’s rear-view mirror must mean.

The world is a desolate wilderness and you’re as hungry as those predators who lurk among the preening-and-always-begging-for-attention-or-something sheep. Waking up from sleepwalking, you find yourself there, in that dark place where the wind whips through the trees with an obscene sort of willfulness.

It’s where you first learned to let go of that rigid control.

Do you remember that time so long ago? Before you could walk on only two feet.

Before you learned to kill with anything but teeth.

You pretend you’re human. You wear that bloody coat of frailty with a secretive sort of maniacal glee. All the while you’re frantically searching and dredging up the thing that’s gone into hiding in your marrow where no blade, bullet, or religion could find it.

You remember with a perverse sort of longing, what it was like to be a beautiful, terrible beast killing with abandon and crawling along the bottom of the ocean on prehensile digits for feet.

You haven’t forgotten what it was like to be a worm down there in the murky wetness, a primordial oracle trumpeting possibilities in a twisted, young planet’s tongue.

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