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His fingers always cut and bled me like a chopped steak, with the blood running in through its membranes and roads. He never cared at all what we thought. He just liked seeing kids cry in fear.
Rated: Fiction T - English - Poetry/Drama - Words: 96 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 08-21-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3052143
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A+ A-
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The big man can't accept his own blame
So he yells at the kids
Because children don't have brains
His finger is sharp as a knife
His brown eyes that kill with such might
The children cry
He doesn't care
He eats them with his words
He picks them apart
Like pickled ham skin that he peels apart with his bladed fingers
The pink bleed showing, his white machetes devouring
The children die slowly
They lose their innocence
But he feasts on it
And he returns to his den
To feed for another day once again
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