Dinnertime

A mouth alone
inside a gaping face misshapen,
a death-defected
hollow bone,
eyes long gone to hell
ears hacked, discarded.

This creature waits,
patient as certain psychoses
or like cancer, dormant &
inevitable, queued to kill.

It breathes through clenched teeth
of thunderstorm grey
and senses as visitor
uncharmed
clutches key three,
twisting the handle.

There is no exit.

The screams are pure…

…bottled,
savored, aged, and,
finally,
consumed
in sickening celebration.