Zack Daily
To Become a Poem I killed a man in Fayetteville, and devoured him limb by limb. His poetry bored me, and his words fell flat against the ground, splashed in pooling, shimmering red, the liquid rust of his body indistinguishable from the crimson of the wall. But his life tasted exquisite – like wild cherries, or sorbet. Sweetness oozed from his bones, and heroin leaked from the marrow. I endured his every scream, every sob, as if he were the only one being ripped apart. This feast, this sabotageable culinary agony must be savored, remembered. When one consumes another, do they become the same? Can I commit this murder and forget the man? Or is he born again already, reincarnated in the bloodstained mirror?
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