For the Night Shifter

Dear Little Knives Seeking Sore and Wounded Hearts,

Pardon my French, but it's time you fuck off. I don't mean to be crass, but you seem to have not heard the prayers for strength and peace and "your will not mine," so I'm giving it to you straight.
Enough.
Fuck off.
You don't belong here, so get your damn feet off the coffee table and your sorry ass out the door, you poor and withering fool. That we breathe in gasps, taste our hearts in our mouths, feel our stomachs turn to stone at the sight of you, at the thought of you, at the out of a blue of you, damned little knives, means only that we are not yet dead and so nowhere near to lost.
You and your razor edge, your fine slice, your blooming blood in a bud of split skin are a midnight's flowering, and though the dead will rise, death will not. You are not the only lion prowling for a meal. Light on the horizon. And it will devour you whole.

And did you catch that part where I told you to fuck off?