I love you the way that blowfly larvae love the cold,
unyielding flesh of a rotting corpse.
Crawl through crumbling dirt of dissolving hope,
scorched soils where nothing pure can grow.
I eat your lies.
Feast on the fetid stench of long-dead lust,
Choke on disillusionment and dust.
Disappointment.
Swallow hollow promises and fading dreams,
Gorge on what-ifs and might-have-beens.
In agony I writhe, distended belly bulging,
Fester in the rotting carcass of your love.
I burrow deeper, squirming, worming,
Desperate for a taste of what your heart once held.
Succor for a starving soul,
Just one last kiss.
Taste of maggots on your belching breath.
So this is death.
I was mad to ever crave you.
About the Creator
Angel Whelan
Angel Whelan writes the kind of stories that once had her checking her closet each night, afraid to switch off the light.
Finalist in the Vocal Plus and Return of The Night Owl challenges.
Keep reading
More stories from Angel Whelan and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.