Drinking of my own blood

Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me. I should be a normal person. But I’m not. I experience bloodlust. Even when I was small, I used to lap up the blood from my wounds, I delighted in my nosebleeds. I have not drunk for many years. But the urge to feed has gotten stronger, more dangerous. Now the call to slit my wrists is overpowering me. The violent urges I have are telling me to rape and to drink, to wipe out the entire human race. I glare at people on the street. The other day I saw a little girl, around 14, she radiated purity and innocence. She was bratty and still child-like. And I wanted to gulp down that whiteness and throw it back up like the soiled linen sheet of East of the Moon, West of the Sun. How long can I resist the beckoning of my demons, the ones that tell me to hurt, to break? How long before I can fly free? I live in a world I have created for myself. My heart cries out to what I call my homeland, the Makai of a Japanese cartoon by the name of Yu Yu Hakusho. Sometimes I can cry in floods, when I’m watching a movie. But I can no longer cry for myself. I can no longer feel, all left is an angry throbbing monster in the dark space. Perhaps what I have suspected all along is true then. I am not human. Funny thing is, I always knew I\'d be the one to break myself.