Bronson Gao

高校三年生の時

教室

スカルシュガー

“Sick to the stomach again, there, sacrificed a wish to auto-cannibalism. I could make the flavor Your taste in the mouth of what mauls You alive. And You eat. And begins to smell like Your mouth, the meat is in Your hands.

“The blood is on Your hands. And that little feeling scrapes away. On the edge of my nails, I press into Your bitten touch. As the sum total of the effort, You are worked, whipped clean. Thus is the fervor and foam at the mouth for the taste of skin.

“Stripped by the belt from the four limbs, this is Your birthday suit, cutie honey. Yeah, coulda been laughing, ‘cept there’s nothing funny. I crawl on Your spine like a scepter, like a slave’s suckling hunger for Your defecated death ritual. Your face is dressed in pilgrim flaccidity, the purest feeling. My teeth concede.

“You can’t help what chooses You. You can’t help what You become. In the air is a consciousness, some sense of normalcy. It flickers as the seasons change. I don’t know what to do the day it gets on all fours and fucks itself into an abattoir's stain.

“Internal bleeding recedes into a phase of doubt. Wrath stalls for its apprehension—fading rapidly—asking if You finally ended in the end, as if one could. It was the mistake. Deep inside, never mind the stain.

“Don’t worry.

“From Your skull I eat Your sugar. I cut You vulgar. I twist You apart like a rabbit’s neck in my bloodied fist. That little feeling scrapes away until its final day alive.”

Deadra sat back down.