The Flesh Weaver

She doesn’t knock—she seeps inside,

A hunger clothed in rotting hide.

Her limbs are wrong, too long, too thin,

Her mouth unhinged, stretched ear to chin.

—

She smells like rust, like graveyard mud,

Like something dead that still has blood.

She hums a tune in shredded tones,

A symphony of splintered bones.

—

She doesn't kill—not yet, not quick,

She likes it slow, she likes it sick.

She cracks the ribs, she digs in deep,

She licks the lungs before they weep.

—

She plucks the nerves like violin strings,

Pulls out the tongue but lets them sing.

She bites the eyes but leaves the lids—

So they can watch the things she did.

—

She twists their limbs, a brittle snap,

She lets them crawl, she lets them lap

At puddles dark with bile and grief,

Begging, choking for relief.

—

She whispers soft into their skin,

A voice of maggots bred within:

"You called me bitch, you made me queen—

Now rot inside my gut unseen."

—

And when she leaves—oh, she is kind.

She takes their bones but leaves their mind.

She leaves them breathing, cold and bare,

Alone inside a shell of air.

Their mouths agape, their bodies dried,

Just empty husks with souls inside.

And no one knows, and no one sees,

That she still moves beneath their knees.