From Bloody Orange

I believe in the periphery of my feelings.  I worship the demigods inside the meat of this blood orange and its peelings.  I am a carnivorous vegetarian, starving in a once emoted world that’s been degenerated by beasts like me.  When I feed I taste sweet, juicy goodness.  But unlike real forbidden fruit, I rot.  The maggots devour me.  The flies lay their eggs, and their babies eat my decaying flesh, including my cherry heart, kidney bean kidneys and pâté liver.  I am a rare delicacy, cooked on the burning outskirts of all recognizable emotions.  Because we have none.  We are the antithesis of your feelings.  We are the true mirrors of your hate.  We are the fate of dysfunctional families.  Our existence is a simile for horror.  Whores, borrowers of broken brothers, head-bobbing robbers of the unstoppable kind–we are unkind, our kind.