Dear Stranger,
I have rats in my brain and a can for a heart. A broken mechanism, not made to function in the first place. A thin creature, wobbly and tainted. Feral and enraged.
Can you feel the rage? Not anger, no, not that, the rage. It burns the flesh and grows out of me to touch the sky.
It wants to eats, it spreads and pulses, makes itself known. There is no peace within, it wants to devour the world for what it has done to me.
The flesh burns, the rats scratch at my sanity, and the black hole in my stomach growls for more.