From birth, our bodies begin rotting on the vines,
Makeup masks our ruin; clothes shroud crumbling shrines,
Enough seats for us, our grief, and ghostly diners,
Clay dolls shaped by less intelligent designers;

Gorge while we can, is what the void inside us tells,
Teeth grind charred swine, desperate to stuff hollow shells,
Too lost to gauge each other’s decomposition,
Doll cracked maliced lips chitchat in competition;

Starved, we crave the feast, each other’s incompleteness,
Clay clings to fear’s wrinkles, exposing raw weakness,
A mask slips, the vultures dive on the roadkill eats,
Eyes glimmering in hope of lacerated treats;

Enraptured, we unravel, cherubic and sweet,
Guilt claws our full guts, choking undigested meat,
Regret gnaws sweet scraps in this hostile carcass,
We lick our plates clean to disguise our darkness;

Eat away our germinating cancerous shame,
The charade that glues us whole, this fresh tumoured claim,
Why are we starving for each other’s misery?
To spoil the scraps of goodness; call it victory;

Aroused by the rotting, vultures peck at each corpse,
Prey and feed until there’s nothing left on their forks,
Stacking up our stinking shells in the smoke-soaked trash,
Our bellies bloated where nibbling maggots thrash.

Inspired by The Last Supper, written by Luciana Cole on Substack
25th Nov 2025 – Shared with Melissa’s FFFC #348