He tells me that the flies are not good for my image.
I want to tell him that the spider webs that hang between my ribs are not for decoration,
That my fingers are locusts and my lips are earthworms.
My skin slides off my bones, soft, putrid, decomposing.
The flies keep the snakes in my hair company and give them something to eat.
Stare deep into my cockroach-coloured eyes, my love,
And kiss me before you realize that I am a corpse who has not yet died.
Hilariously creepy.
This work, “Flies” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Beth Murch 