The rain pours and the thunder roars.
It's comforting, it's the sound of solitude
Despite the headlights rolling by
And the lampposts shining brightly orange.
Rain splashes gently, hitting the ground,
And there's no other sound I want to hear,
So I drown everything else out.
In silence and shadow I excel.
Retreating to the alleyway, narrow and foreboding,
Its harrowing nature is a sanctuary for my own self.
I become the darkness that surrounds me,
The nothingness, the non-existent threat.
I hear the sound of heels clicking on pavement,
Gentle splashes where shoe meets water,
Not too far off in the distance,
But it takes me only an instant to let the predator take over my mind.
Steadily paced, the footsteps grow louder;
The pheromones so strong that it's almost a taste.
I wait, breath bated, for the moment to arrive.
The gap between here and slaking the thirst feels too wide,
Like the pupils of my eyes, dilated,
And I'm overdosing on oxytocin when finally I strike.
Pulling the warm body into the claustrophobic alley,
The blackness engulfs us both.
We are nothing.
Nothing exists except for her heartbeat, thumping and drumming
Until it...fades.

Being the black sheep of the family
Is all well and good until winter comes.
The grass is frozen, food is scarce
And those stomachs don't stop rumbling,
Ever wailing to be appeased,
Unaware and uncaring to the icy conditions.
They're not monsters, no.
They huddle together for warmth;
Snow dusting their coarse wool
As they stand, determined to make it through the cold.
But their stomachs scream like dying beasts,
And the ache is so prevalent in their empty bellies.
No fat to chew on, time passes by so slowly,
And that black sheep is starting to look like the odd one out.
It doesn't look like food,
But it does seem just enough like an other
To smother any guilt that may linger
At the bottom of a recently-assuaged hunger.
They're not monsters, no,
Because the black sheep was never one of them.