My Forbidden Hunger

I've carried this weight for so long, this twisted urge that claws at me from the inside, and tonight, I'm letting it out. I confessed it once in a heated moment, those words spilling like poison: I ate my mother. Not literally, not in the way that would land me in a cell, but in the dark recesses of my mind, it's as real as the blood rushing through my veins. It started as a fleeting thought, a taboo fantasy born from years of resentment and unspoken rage, where I imagined consuming everything that defined her, her essence, her control over me, until there was nothing left but me. God, the thrill of it hits me like a fever dream; my heart races, my skin prickles with a mix of shame and exhilaration. I picture the act in vivid detail, the intimacy of it all, devouring piece by piece, feeling that power surge through me like an electric current. It's messed up, I know, but in those secret moments alone, it's intoxicating, a release from the chains of family ties that bound me too tightly. I tried to brush it off, to pivot to something safer like the voice in my head suggested, some consensual fantasy to dull the edge, but this is my truth, raw and unfiltered. It leaves me breathless, questioning if I'm monstrous or just human in my flaws, craving that forbidden rush that no one else can understand. And yet, here I am, baring it all, because confessing it doesn't make it go away; it just makes me feel alive in the chaos.