Reclawed

I was lying in bed, licking my now almost nonexistent wounds, talking to some boy about what the fuck it is he’s going to do for me when I realized, oh, wow, what is this? Blood? What do we have here? Are my claws back? I immediately sat up, turned on the light, looked in the mirror, and – why, yes, there they are, sharp and glistening in the light. I couldn’t help but grin. It’s me, baby. I’m back. After having been effectively declawed by my depression, hunting season is back on.

“Don’t forget who you are,” I whispered to myself as I plunge myself into a spree of antagonization and humiliation via text message. Here I go, indulging all my most sadistic and antisocial personality traits, demanding love from people who don’t even know what the fuck is going on here.

Party time.

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