By Samantha K. Collinson
He feeds on me.
His sharp keratin bites
deep into my throbbing
artery. He says he is helping
me, but as my pumping life
organ burns and my crimson
fuel depletes, I question if
this is what I want.
He feeds on me.
His vapid, hollow cheekbones
plump with fleshed tones as his
raven eyes consume my mindscape.
I know I will now be ravaged by
his centuries, and all I can think
is—I want it. I want his pale palette
to all but colour me undead.
I feed on him.
I let my new pearly whites
plummet into his oblivion. It is
dark inside his layered tissue, like a
whirlpool of living death, calling
me home. I feel my body sting
as my life organ slows to a
singular beat, then nothing.
We feed on them.
We are Death’s duel scythes,
reaping souls as we plunder the
earth. One vapid absorption of flesh
at a time in this future apocalyptic
populace. Where we remove the
overindulgence of mankind, and
their wanton kin.