🩸 Bloodhound Echoes

Nothing left but ache and instinct

I bleed for you.
You bleed for me.
It was never love.
It was always appetite.

You marked me with your mouth—soft at first,
until softness wasn’t enough.
Now there are rivers on my face,
carved by tears you’ll never taste,
and you vanish before the bruises even bloom.

You take.
You always fucking take.
And still, I crave it.
Not because I want you,
but because the bond doesn’t give a fuck what I want.
Only what I’ll offer next.

Change is coming.
I feel it in the marrow.
A shift in your hunger.
A new edge in the way you leave.

It hurts.
Not just in the heart.
Not just in the cunt.
But in that strange, invisible place
where your venom lives in me still,
a command, a craving,
a leash woven through bone.

I see you.
But you never see me,
only the offering.
Only the blood.
The torn wrist.
The red mouth.
The pulse you can still hear,
even when you’re halfway to the shadows.

We are hollow now.
Nothing left but ache and instinct.
Even pain has become familiar.

But I’m lying, aren’t I?
There are nights I beg for the taste,
your teeth at my throat,
the way your hunger makes me forget who I am.
I burn when you're near.
I break when you're gone.
And still, I keep opening the door.
Still, I arch into the bite.

It’s not just blood you take.
It’s choice.
And god, sometimes I want you to take it,
to pin me to the dark and make me yours,
just so I can stop pretending
I ever wanted to be free.

And still,
my heart is bound to you.

Not because I want it.
But because that’s how you made me: yours.
Thrall.
Until the day you tire of the taste
and leave me bleeding,
quietly,
beautifully,
free.

© Samira Wyld 2025

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