A flash of teeth, white pearls.
Stab, sting, spark, bite.
And then stillness. Salvation.
Inhale. Exhale. Lifeblood.

You are neat. Surgical, almost.
Ice-cold hands reminiscent of a doctor's gloves.
Years of control, of restraint,
it has tamed you.
Rendered you safe. Sanitary. Calm.
No more dangerous than a regular housecat - domesticated.

I wonder, sometimes, if you want to be like this.
Are you glad? Do you marvel at the iron-grip of control you have over your instincts?
I think, if I were turned, I would not be so precise.
I think I would enjoy the viscera.

Messy, messy, messy, you would tut at me.
Shredded intestines, bones gnawed clean.
Blood, meat, a horribly lovely cocktail. All for me.
Delicious marrow, heart torn out, veins, arteries, capillaries.

This is why you do not turn me.
I am too...how shall I say, predisposed to violence.
Created a terrible, twisted thing.
Never like the housecat, even now. More a tiger, or python.
Always, I have the Urge to bite, bite, bite.

As you pull back, licking over the wound,
interrupting my ruminations,
a small trickle of blood begins its route down my neck.
I see your pupils dilate. Still, you are gentle in cleaning it.
You do not leave a mess.
Although I would never tell you, sometimes I wish you would.

You have seen my soul,
that black, bitter tar it holds.
You do not have to be neat around me.
I would not begrudge you
if you made me dizzy in your bloodlust.
We are tethered together, always. This, I am unashamed of.

Ideally, it would be forever.
It may be.
If you do not turn me, someone will.
Perhaps, then, I could twist you as I am twisted.

Wouldn't that be nice?