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.