Part II – The Monster’s Verse: Feast of the Fleshborn (The monster’s point of view) He cracked like shell beneath a heel, His soul a meal, his thoughts my veal. His screams were salt, his tears were wine, I sucked him dry from spine to spine. I curled inside his fragile frame, And scraped his mind with nails of flame. I painted madness on his brain, With brushes dipped in searing pain. I slurped the echoes of his past, A banquet served from first to last. I fed on joy, I drank his guilt, I bled him out for all he built. His jawbone split, his sockets burned, I twisted ribs that never turned. His laughter turned to guttural gags, As I wore him whole like bloody rags. No cage could hold the beast I am, No priest could cleanse this walking damn. I am decay, I do not tire, A god of gnaw, a mouth of fire. But one is never quite enough, The dead grow cold, the weak grow tough. I crave her warmth, her skin, her plea— She’s almost home. She’ll feed like three