Soft Flesh Is Eaten By Hard Teeth.

I Want Life And In All Its Stupid Sticky Rawness.

I Crush Her Against Me. I Want To Be Part Of Her. Not Just Inside Her But All Around Her. I Want Our Rib Cages To Crack Open And Our Hearts To Migrate And Merge. I Want Our Cells To Braid Together Like Living Thread.

My Friend "m" Says The Irony Of Being A Zombie Is That Everything Is Funny, But You Can't Smile, Because Your Lips Have Rotted Off.

Last Winter, When So Many Living Joined The Dead And Our Prey Became Scarce, I Watched Some Of My Friends Become Full-dead. The Transition Was Undramatic. They Just Slowed Down, Then Stopped, And After A While I Realised They Were Corpses. It Disquieted Me At First, But It’s Against Etiquette To Notice When One Of Us Dies. I Distracted Myself With Some Groaning.

I Feel An Unfamiliar But Pleasant Sensation In My Lips, Tugging Them Upward. This Is... New.