Tend Towards

They Hunger

Didn't we see them? The psychopaths and sigilists, adorning their arms with obscure, arcane tattoos in red, cutting their wounds open again as if they were pouring the libations from their vessels into the ceramic sinks of Le Chat Noir's midnight confessional toilets? I swear we saw them; those hungering artists who wield razor blades instead of paintbrushes, expressing pain and longing, fear and peace in the colours of crimson on their yielding, eagerly receiving canvases.

What did we do when we saw those madmen in the club? What would we do if we saw the bleeding effigies prancing around the streets, hollering and howling out drunken songs of regret and lament, cocaine highs and lonely lows? We'd avoid them, I think. It's sensible. It's safe.

I'm sure we'll see them again, those starving souls. We'll vaguely recognise the faces that once peeked out from beneath the raven hair, eyes reflecting in the mirror that seem to simultaneously scream "I will eat you!" and "I need you!". When they come up on the news, or the milk boxes, or wash up in the rivers or on the coast, the voices in us – our souls – will recall their hunger and their need in the backs of our thoughts, and whisper, "I should have fed them."