Un-Cooked, a haiku sonnet
(inspired, yet again, by a conversation with Natalie/potterfan97) here’s a piece for you—a slab on the boards waiting for the knife of your eyes. it drips from my mouth. there is blood in it. there is iron and weakness in it. it turns from red to ochre in the air. can you smell it? it's starting to rot. can you stomach it? your gut must match its emptiness or it will infect you and eat you from within.