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Carrion.
You can almost feel the rot, corpses pile up quickly
Decay sets in to fast, bodies unrecognizable
Or is that just a result of your methods?
Gore.
It litters where you go, a choice
Everything you do, down to breathing, is a choice
Conscious, aware, bloodied.
With the red tint, the blood blends in
The corpses disappear
But you know they’re there
You can smell it, almost tasting it
Death, in its freshest form.
A tantalizing taste that you cannot get rid of
Madness infects you to kill
But you control the madness
And now the madness begs for something closer, more than the smell of death
You have to taste it.
You need to taste it.
Cannibalism, is what they call it
Eating another that is the same
But you don’t consider yourself the same
Not to any
Not even close.
How could it be wrong?
How could it be cannibalism?
You aren't human, maybe you never have been
It isn’t wrong
It isn’t cannibalism
It’s just wasting meat, just littering.
You can feel your fangs; sharp teeth designed to cut into flesh
Freed, cloth removed.
You can feel your claws; sharp, small knives pushing out of your flesh
Ready, bloodied.
You can see nothing but red; Nevada in nothing but a bloody tint
Perfect, as it should be.
Unnatural to some
Absolutely normal to you.
Maggots rot the others, the moment warmth leaves
You can taste it
This meat won’t do.
You must taste fresh.
A noise jolts you back into reality
You, a creature, jaw slack, fangs bared
Ready to tear, having nothing to do so one
Until the noise
A fool, checking on the silence.
Fear.
That’s what you can see
You can recognize it easily.
They try to escape, to run
That only gives you even more of a reason to chase
But they don’t get out the door
They try to scream out, for help
But help won’t do anything
Not in time, at least
There’s something satisfying, something a knife can’t bring
By sinking claws into living flesh.
Hearing the reaction
Feeling the pulse
Feeling as the heart betrays the host, pushing blood out of the body
But
That won’t kill them
You won’t let it.
You can see the realization
As you turn them to face you
They know they will die painfully
Your reputation demands it
But
They don’t know how far you’ll go this time.
You can taste it, almost
You can’t hold yourself back, you can feel the drool
Maybe, if they could see it, they would have a moment to realize
To understand.
That they are nothing but a meal.
Blood
The metallic taste assaults you taste buds as you bite into soft flesh
Screams, ones you’ve never heard before
You don’t know how to feel
But
There is satisfaction in hearing them
Even more, sinking your fangs in deeper
Your tongue tastes flesh
You feel like a cat
It sinks it’s fangs into a mouse, purely on instinct
Then it tastes, finally understanding it’s ancestors.
You understand why animals enjoy flesh raw
Why hunting brings joy.
Why didn’t you eat this before?
Hands pound against your head as you sink in deeper, a feeble attempt to stop you
Your fangs pierce through
As you pull away, you can see life leave their eyes, fear plastered on their face
A realization, or maybe the imagination of the addition to your wanted poster
Hank J. Wimbleton, Cannibal.
You conclude that you enjoy that title, as flesh slides down your throat.
Although it means there’s one factual inaccuracy.
Cannibals eat their own kind
And these grunts, these humans
They aren’t your own kind
You aren’t human.