does it turn you on?
these shards of glass in my eyes?
my body is worth less
than the exoskeleton of a maggot
devouring a rotted corpse.
eat them, eat me,
it all tastes the same anyways.
they cry witch
but it means nothing.
it’s always witch
when it should be
me, flesh on fire,
skin crackling—little pops of sound
that funnel into my ear drums.
take a bite of the body.
you don’t care if it’s living,
it’s still sweet,
little granules of sugar trapped
under my open heart cavity
—blood and tangled vein
over my slick pink pulse.
gore so delicious,
I couldn’t pry you off the taste
if I swept down and clawed out your eyes.
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Art by Marisa Sirichartchai
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