They enter,

meat sticks wearing sacks of white.

The meat sticks tell me my name is Mikal

I don’t believe them. What do meat sticks know?

Then the static returns, and the distortion sounds

loud in my ears.

Red and black swirl like a tornado to my eyes.

I wake to screaming.

My mouth is full  of something and I am chewing.

It is a meat stick.

Why do they scream so?

Isn’t that there purpose? Food for me.

Hunger pervades like a demon sitting

squat legged in the middle of my

gut.

The demon rules.

Mikal?

Always they say that.

My heart beats faster…

Vibrating my ribcage,

for not much fat or muscle

surrounds it.

I am not Mikal…

Mikal was weak…I ate him a while ago.

By Philip Wardlow