The wolf at the door.

I am only a smidgen of wanting away from climbing the fucking walls.
I feel the beginning of that old familiar ache, the wolf at the door.
Desire building.
As regular as fucking clockwork here I am again on the edge of consumption.
I ache.
I feel a hollowness inside me that wasn't there before.
A nervous energy tingling in my cunt and to the very end of my fingertips.
I am teetering on the edge of rage: irritable and anxious and frustrated.
Moody.
In fact, at times, a fucking horrible bitch.
In truth I want to cry as much as I want to fuck, but I don't do either.
I want to be silenced, I want pain to cancel out the wanting that's building within me.
I wish I could shut my fucking mouth.
I just want someone to hit me, hit me until this feeling goes away.
This old familiar ache, the wolf at the door.
It's relentless and mocking, and it leaves me hanging on the edge of despair.
Desperate.
Pitiful.
Yet too raw, too vulnerable to do anything about it but protest.
To ride out the discomfort till this feeling goes away.
I already know that tomorrow it will be stronger.
I'll want to scream as much as I want to fuck, but I'll do neither.
I'll want violence and cruelty, to be used and abused - even more than I want it today.
I'll want it all, till I can't take any more.
Till this feeling subsides,
this old familiar ache, the wolf at the door.