I am human,
so they tell me,
dragged from the river,
forced into the ritual.
I heard a cheerful whistle,
far away in the trees,
a soul who had escaped,
perhaps?
Nobody who knew this horror could craft such a beautiful tune,
and let it escape from their lips,
into all this.
I want to be uncontacted,
untouched,
but the human race has hungry hands,
and I lay here,
with my soul and my insides outside of my body,
washed up on the bay of a busy town.
There’s more to life than books, you know,
but I don’t want to hear about it,
because the pages are the only peace I have ever found,
and, God, they’ve already taken so much,
so leave me with Carol Ann and my Marlowe,
let me rest in some kind of peace.
I watch cannibal movies, when the sun has gone down,
and a man who still holds onto my heart asks if I’m awake.
I have made many mistakes in my life,
and some may ask “What’s another?”,
“What’s the harm?”,
but God, he’s already taken so much,
so I stare blankly as arms are torn off,
hearts are eaten,
wishing that mine could be cuisine too,
so that I couldn’t hear her hopeful whistle every time I am drowned and reborn.
Could the ones we labelled as savages, do me this kindness?
They shake their heads,
shaking my hand,
offering a salad.
My girl is whistling again.
