I see you with your bloodthirsty grin,
looking at me like I'm a piece of juicy steak,
knives in your fists.
You're practically banging them against the table,
silently demanding my death.
I get it.
This death might be inevitable
but I'm not giving up without a fight
so do it, I dare you
or at least try:
Yank my bones from their sockets
and crunch them as you chew;
make sure the blood dribbles down your chin
before you wipe it off.
Go ahead and skewer me through my stomach
and serve my guts on a stick.
Oh cannibal,
why must you prey
on those like me
who were already bleeding before your butchering?
Do our tears add the perfect amount of salt
on the meat?
I guess it doesn't matter now
for it is too late for me.
I hope my blood tastes bitter as you swallow.