The air, saturated with a putrid smell.
Foul, like a dumpster in summertime.
They're monsters, skulking around in the Dead of Night.
Leaving, a sickness in their wake.
The way you take.
Gnashing your teeth.
Trying, to pluck out little hearts.
Attempting, to creep up thighs.
Don't touch me, with those slimy fingers.
Go before you die, rotting beast.
We are not a cemetery.
A piece about how horrible men can be, also partially based off the Depeche Mode song "The Dead of Night" because I absolutely love it and thought it was about something completely different than what it's actually about.
— The End —