Content Warning: This fictional poem falls within the horror genre. It contains themes of gore, body horror and cannibalism. Please note that it is a fictional poem.
I contemplate on how long I am willing to keep this up.
It has been about 5 months, but it has evolved into 5 years.
Ever since I adapted to this shameful, unholy diet.
I don’t recall the last time that I’ve used normal food,
Or go explore a normal grocery store like WalMart or Weis.
The past life has faded into the foggy mind.
I favor nibbling on baby carrots to numb the regrets.
But that is the only kind of normal food that doesn’t linger a foul taste.
My taste buds scowl at me and demand for more remains
My old lifestyle is nothing but a delicate, rotting corpse.
The brain and the muscles are my personal favorite.
With their tenderness and light fatness.
The juice that spurs from the meat lifted by the fork
Already gives me pure serotonin.
Just the scent of a sauteed liver flirts with my nostrils.
Deliver me into sensation.
How can I have these cravings and not throw up from the sins?
The blood on my hands and mouth cry,
“What the fuck have you done?”
Too afraid to let God embrace me with arms
For even They know too much.
I neglect the angel on my shoulder
Just to get that addicted, satisfying starvation again.
Though, I have never committed homicide
The pressure would weigh on my shoulders.
Hunting for dealers willing to butcher is more suitable.
No blood will splatter on my twitchy hands.
Don’t analyze my confessions
With your eyes squinted and nose cringed!
I have not killed a single morsel
So why must you tsk in shame, hissing,
“Go to a madhouse!”
But you must puzzle yourself,
How far would you go to quench your forbidden desire?
The frozen hand buried deep in the freezer
Taunts me to have an early supper,
Beckoning me to begin the feast.
My leg vibrates at the thought of continuing this pestering ritual
That soothes my spirit and woes.
Do you not comprehend the struggle it is to stop your mind yelling at you
to end the horrific, addictive habit.
If you perceive me as a mad man, then you are no better
if you have ever lifted a lit, tar-filled cigarette.
