Frumoasa Monstru

I wrote this for school. It is actually not from my point of view.

I seem to be dead;              

my skin is pale and cold,                                                 

my heart still,                                    

the icy breath that tears through my lungs doesn’t seem to be doing what it ought to.                                    

But I hear their hearts beat.                          

Everywhere I go I can feel the warmth radiate from their tender flesh.

I seem to be dead                                                                                            

but really I am empty;                                                 

a shadow of my former self,                                       

the vibrant laughing creature I used to be.                                                 

The boy riding in the fields,                                                

trying to impress his friends by sneaking sips of wine from his parent’s liquor cabinet,                                 

kissing sweet Viata under the acacia tree.

Now their blood is my wine,                                      

their life my field, my ride.

I seem to be dead                                                                

but really I am yearning                                                         

for the feel of bones splintering under my grip,                                                    

the gurgling scream of a severed carotid.

I seem to be dead                       

but really I am a monster.