The twilight's bleeding, and the playing board has two unbalanced pieces

Tonight there is a stirring in my chest creeping dangerously further down. Tonight there is a hunger on my lips, a deliciously dreadful tingle resonating its irrepressible way straight down to the tip of my tongue. Something... something is railing against my insides: a primal beast that has woken and is snarling and slamming its shoulder against my ribs to break out, to bask in the light of the moon and resume the hunt as if it had never gone dormant. There are things inside us, grotesquely gnarled things belonging to the wicked whims of the night. As daylight dims, that quietly quivering demon we possess grows louder, stronger, until it threatens to possess us instead. And there are times, times like this very moment, that this frail frame longs to surrender to that force, and unleash it onto an unsuspecting world. An old world, ruled by old and merciless gods from a primordial age. See, life is so much simpler when boiled down to basic instincts — bring back brutality, survival of the fittest, lashings of the old ultraviolence, paws pinning prey to the ground and teeth plunging into tissue. Surely you should prove to be better sport than the slaughtered and forgotten antelope baring their throats to the wolf with the red roses. Surely, the way you play dead is merely some cleverly devised, if misguided, tactic. Frozen in place even as you feel my breath hot on your neck, trails of saliva slick on your skin as jaws move to tear limb from limb, my blood boiling as yours spills, my pulse quickening as yours slows. And, well, has this not always been the way with us? Life surging through one of us at the expense of draining it from the other; one of us fights while the other one folds. Get up this time, goddammit. Fight back! Blow for blow, tit for tat, one pound of flesh for another, and each of our innermost appetites stays fed.