Death invites us to dinner, and forgets to mention we are the main course. He leaves bite marks on the bend of our backs as we walk in the door. He leaves stretch marks on our bellies where he checks if we are done yet. He flays our skin, fries it, and eats us crunchy. He gobbles our muscles, dipped in peanut sauce. He uses our bones to pick his teeth. Sometimes he prefers to drown us in our juices and lick the fat off, a little at a time. Death loves a dinner to die for. He knows we’re all dying to see him.
published in Scuzzbucket
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