The demons inside my head;
they feast fatly,
on fine wines
and my misery and despondency,
on glazed ham and roasted turkey,
on whiskey and my will to live.
They refill round bloated bellies,
Mouths full of delicious delicacies,
Just living keeps them swelling.

They feast for how long I have lived,
Devouring my passions, my loves within.
My sadness, like fine spiced soup,
Dribbles down their chin.
They are guilty,
guilty of Gluttony Sin.

They will always feast on me
and on my insides,
On my truths and on my lies.
My flesh, even, they take in strips,
My blood and happiness in the cups they sip,
My everything is on their lips.

Even when I am dead,
They will still be in my head,
Dining on the delectable dessert
Of the deceased.
Pop goes the buttons on their coats;
Fabric ripping like torn flesh,
Sweetened and thickened
Creamed like custard
Gently; slowly, flowing
Down their meaty throats.