the hesitation because of how it makes my blood run cold. the way it clouds up my eyes. the way we hold the world on our tongues or the truth or ourselves. the restraint. the internal fight of the clear outlook and the dooming silence. the way the beast grows inside. the way it /lingers/ over your shoulder. the ache. the way it grips your stomach.

and the regret

the way you miss the beast. the way you miss feeling alone in it's presence. the way you miss it's (my) claws gripping your neck and tongue and spine and brain. and you just want it back . .  .   .    .     .      .