Intrude the introvert
and claim his seashells over meat
he has met the clams on the other street
When it used to be December,
we starred at him and we chose to kill him.
His death was sweet, I stayed beside his rotting
corpse for weeks on end
to smell the flesh become gross.
He used to be like me.
We laughed at the same jokes
and drank the same tea.
We share bread and wine
and grape vines.
I wore his clothes and he punched me.
I would try to poison him before he would
poison me. We hated each other greatly.
He was not a brother, a sister, a friend.
He was grief, madness, and hunger
with no end. We killed him.
And unlike all the others,
it was so sweet. To see him in my eyes,
his rotting flesh. I was enticed to eat his
eyes and his bone marrow.
I shaved his hair off his skull to ware it.
He is not over yet, neither am I.