I am an empty fleshbag. I am continually seeking ways to fill this hollow sack.
Sometimes, the fleshbag is hungry for validation, so I hunt for compliments. This merely takes the edge off; my pride does not usually allow me to beg like a puppy for treats.
Eventually, the fleshbag craves emotions. I track down reasons to be sad or angry, because those are the strongest antidote. My bones don’t mind the pain, but misery does not flatter the figure.
Often, the fleshbag itches for physical sustenance. So, I eat and drink and fuck and suck and run. These are my disguise, this is how I appear more human, less monstrous.
My vessel is never satisfied, never whole. I fill myself with lovers’ identities. I try them on, force my arms through their sleeves. For months, I feed on their sexual desire – I am a scavenger, picking meat off the bones. But when the flesh is gone, I ache for more. I claw at their hearts: only the source of their sustenance will gratify. Their pleasure and affection is ample, at first. I fatten them with cuddles and giggles and carefully curated words. Their contentment oozes through my pores. Comfort, though, does not mollify for long. When luxury ceases to be enough, I lust for disaster. I thirst for heartache. I never create the collapse; I cannot have the blame lie anywhere near me, or else I would be exposed as the hollow, ravenous beast that I am. So I wait patiently, prodding ever-so-cautiously, nudging us towards destruction. Because that’s when I finally feel fed. Lovers’ desolation keeps the fleshbag glutted.
