That cancerous thirst

The scrap of meat clinging to my pallid boney fingers vibrate with an enthusiastic energy. I don’t remember becoming this, a display of something I’m not. It doesn’t end, it won’t stop, it can’t stop.

The knife glints in the dark, begging to be driven deep into flesh, seemingly lost in fond memories of carving my thighs. That was always my favourite slice, the juicy blue slab dripping a smooth red. I can still feel the soft muscle giving way to my indomitable teeth. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for one last meal like the first.

I have nothing left but crying sinews. It’s all gone, I devoured it all. My form now a shadow of what it was. The bones exposed, the organs shrinking, the smell suffocating.

The thirst remains.

I’m pecking at the shrivelling tendons on my knuckles, the last vestiges of my form holding me together. Barely satisfying. Barely a meal. Ripping away like an old corpse on a forgotten highway. Begrudgingly melding with the land.

Nothing remains but the dried up husk of a body long gone. Yet it carries on, oblivious to the impossibility of being animated without a deep red slab of meat encasing it.

It still thirsts ever more, for something which never was, and never will be.

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