Feast of the Unmade

I woke in silence, thick and deep,

A womb of rot where dead things creep.

The air was bile, the walls were thirst,

I was the last, I was the first.

—

My skin was paper, thin and torn,

My ribs bent outward, black with worms.

I smelled the earth—not soil, but skin,

A graveyard stacked with those within.

—

"You are the last."

"You are the next."

"You are the feast beneath our chest."

—

I tried to move—I was not whole.

My hands were ash, my legs were cold.

A hundred mouths grinned where I stood,

Some whispering prayers, some choking on blood.

—

Then something breathed inside my chest,

Not lungs. Not air. But something else.

A second voice, a second mind,

A second pair of hands inside.

—

It gripped. It pulled. It peeled me back.

My spine unzipped. My eyes turned black.

My stomach split, the meat fell out,

A flower blooming inside-out.

—

And then I saw—it was not me.

I was the husk. It was the seed.

It stretched my lips, it screamed my name,

But I was gone—I’d been unmade.

—

I fell into the waiting deep,

Where bones were dust and mouths don’t sleep.

They wrapped around, they pulled me in,

A tide of hunger, skin on skin.

—

I do not breathe. I only choke.

I do not speak. I am the smoke.

I am inside you, slick and red—

A thing you’ll feel inside your head.

—

Your ribs will hum. Your veins will shake.

You will not know you're mine to take.

And when you wake with blackened teeth—

It will be me who breathes beneath.