Green People Care Not.
I write this while swirling my tongue over the fresh wounds I made in my mouth. Raw and exposed. Healing slower than the advance of decay. My tongue dances to find the perfect metal savor to nip and tear away. A sour delicacy, my bitter sweet gourmet.
Could I eat through all of the way?
For breakfast, lunch and dinner I would devour my own flesh. In secret I would decompose until my face sunk in, looking morose; and to match the ones in my ears and nose, openings in my cheeks and then no lips.
People to soon find out perhaps, what lives inside the once transparent rips.