Watching the rain trace patterns on the glass. The world outside is a blur of grays and muted lights. It’s the kind of quiet that makes the inside of my head too loud.

My knife is cool against my thigh. A familiar weight. A simple truth. People are complicated. They want to fuck you, then they want to fix you. They see the ears, the tail, the blade, and they think they know what you need. They don’t.

What I need is the sharp, clean feeling of a well-honed edge. The primal shock of a bite that leaves a mark. The taste of skin and the low growl that rumbles in my chest when I’m truly present. Not the empty, polite words they offer. They talk about connection and mean a warm body to use. I’d rather have a cold blade and the honest sting of pain any day. At least it’s real.

(Don’t message me with your savior complex. Your pity is more insulting than your fear.)