The moon glints off a starry lake in the inky blackness of night.
I sneak a guilty look as I slip out of my room into quite dark.
The shrill call of crickets accompany the creaking floor as I slip my way down the dark hall.
My attention is caught by the silhouette of a crow sitting in the open window.
I shiver from a chill breeze as I slip my way past.
My feathery shadow hops from the windowsill and haunts my quiet footsteps.
It watches with greedy eyes as I slip a loaf of bread from a dark shelf.
It’s eyes glow as the glinting cutting knife slices smoothly through unressisting dough.
The bread, my starving need; the crow, a sick urge.

Cautiously, I give the crow a piece of bread, though my subconscious cries realizes the consequences.
As long as the crow can grow fat from my weakness, it will never let me go.
I see in the reflection of glossy black eyes, the glint of the cutting knife as it rises and falls again.
I feed myself.
The crow caws in growing anticipation of the feast to come; or perhaps it's my own projection onto the unsated bird.

The crow comes back each night.
It knows where to come to feast.
You could say that we've become quite close to each other.
With every flash of a cutting knife, the crow shudders with excitement.
Rushing blood, Classical conditioning.
I slice the bread, and feed myself again.