Forgive me because it’s easier for me to let the thoughts run through than wait. I need to tell someone yet I can’t tell anyone I know. This way I am unknown. I want to keep it that way. I don’t mind advice, I don’t mind disgust. Understand that I want someone to know what I’ve done. I want to be understood.
I am not suicidal. I am however, a very anxious person being treated for chronic depression. All my life this has been my routine. I guess these could be contributing factors to my habit but I don’t think so.
I do not want to hurt people. I don’t have the stomach for it and I don’t know where they have been. Jokes aside, I couldn’t live with my self if I did. I once cried because someone paid for my mcchicken.
And more importantly eating from my body is personal. There is a ritual to it all, It’s not sexual but the compulsion is intense, and once I begin I do not stop until I pry away some morsel of my self and eat it. In that moment, I feel the most at ease.
I will now go over what I eat.
I like skin the most. There are various places on my body I can take. Often the bottoms of my feet. Painless, and I yield a large portion I can spend hours chewing into pulp.
I can cut plugs and no one will notice. So I don’t raise any concerns. I can also take from my finger tips, and with something sharp, like a nail cutter or box knife, I can easily flay myself without blood or pain or chew free the flesh. I’m strangely proud of the feat. It’s like unwraveling a piece of taffy. It’s a strange feeling once I peel it free. Cold, tender. Like the layer underneath has been peeled free of sweaty socks and allowed to breath.
I get sometimes get calloused, hard skin from my work despite my best efforts. But this too is eaten. this I can cut away in large sheets and suckle until it falls apart in my mouth, tender.
There is no real flavor to my skin. Perhaps my pallet is poor. But I don’t really get a strong flavor. I’m mild at most. Perhaps because I clean well before and after a session, perhaps because the raw skin of humans is just bland. The taste isn’t important. Eating isn’t important.
I feel satisfied. So at ease. It’s a wonderful, comforting feeling and right before that there’s a rush, an urge to get that feeling. Living alone for so long I never worry about being seen. This compulsion, this urge to eat my flesh.
Today for example, I worked at the bottoms of my feet with pliers, a box cutter and a razor. I was ravenous, and in that haste I tore patterns jagged and uneven. With some effort I managed to use the razor to smooth it all over, and my reward was a precious pile of skin dust that I soaked in water and drank. The pliers are not use to pull the skin, but rather help unfurl it. I like to use my fingers to do that. I like the feel. The resistance .
I also consume mucus. Yes. From the nose. The throat. But only if there is enough. It is salty when I am well. When I am sick, however I can taste A sweet tang that buzzes on my tongue. Color ranges clear, to yellow or green. Rarely I will have a bloody, black mucus from nose bleeds. Sticks to my teeth life caramel, and melts into my mouth like pudding.
This however only became part of the habit as a result of my second favorite thing to eat.
I only like blood second to skin because of the difficulty. I know it may be hard to believe but I am squeamish. I can’t stand pain, and horror movies make me uncomfortable. But blood is perhaps one of the best things my body has to offer me.
Blood is not water.
That much is obvious but think about this for a moment. In film and comic books you see people bleed like a fire house. That can happen sure. It’s also thin and runny. But iam sure anyone whose bled well or worked with it knows.
Blood is thick, it is sticky and clots into chunks like pudding skin. And it is hot. It coats the mouth like steak fat and smells of copper. There is a hint of sweetness to it. I cause nosebleeds with a nail or sharp tool and let the blood drip down my lips. I breath it in, I sample the texture of coagulation mixed into my beard eith my tongue and I fill a cup with enough to watch it clot. I chew these clots and smear the back of my teeth. Somtimes I drink it before it clots, costing my throat and perfuming my breath.
Blood is an experience for all the senses. But I can’t bleed too much, and unless I wanna wait for a nose bleed I would have to cut myself. So any time I draw blood i make the most out the occasion.
While I am aware it is harmful to me, I cannot stop. It’s a compulsion and I embrace it. It is like a sacred ritual to me, for me that only I alone can perform . I clean myself. Make sure my tools are sharp. I put sterilize my tools. I prod for spots I can work at painlessly. I cut away a lot less than you’d think. I clean and bandage and disinfect.
But I am scared. What if I go too far? I admit I have become bolder. I managed to peel away a ribbon of flesh the length of a finger.
I even dream about devouring my self. Over and over a kaleidoscope of devouring meat for all eternity. A self sufficient machine, perfect. Satiated. Complete. Whole.