An Author Trying to Be Cool

Disgust He was always met with disgust For his paintings For his love For,  He drew dead bodies Lovingly recreated As skin decayed Hair removed itself Fluids staining their clothes "Rigor Mortis is over," He explains, "So," "All the fluids staining clothes," "Those are from the person." They respond with disgust, Towards his lovingly painted Detailed Beautiful drawings He heeds them no mind They are, After all, His next subjects

When they had first gotten married, he'd seemed so nice. Yeah, he'd rushed her a bit, but he had been loving and kind. Bringing flowers, kissing her cheek before bed every night, dancing with her to songs on the radio. It had been so romantic. Anne had gone to work and heard something, one day, that changed it all. She had only asked him, politely she'd thought, if it was true that he'd been flirting with other women. She'd thought he would shake his head and laugh, sweeping her up and kissing her again. "Shut up and make me a sandwich." It only got worse from there. He smacked her around and claimed to their neighbours that she fell down the stairs. He forced himself on her, leaving her torn and bleeding and alone. He swore at her and cursed her for ever questioning him. "Shut up and make me a sandwich." She became reserved and quiet to the point that all of her friends were worried about her. One of her coworkers confronted her husba

She didn't know where they came from Spiders From the ceiling? From the windows? From her mouth? Coming up her throat from her stomach? She only saw them Would they kill her? Would they not? She found, As they danced along her skin, She didn't care. "Kill me," She said There was no response So She sat, Silently, Until all the spiders withdrew, Back into the space behind her teeth Beneath her tongue On the walls of her throat Then, She felt purpose In the crawling of spiders around her mouth

The body, at first glance, didn't look too bad. There wasn't any blood on his clothes. He sat at the kitchen table, slumped back with his head on his shoulder like he'd just fallen asleep. There wasn't a sign of a struggle, in fact, not even a single hair was out of place. He just looked like a sleeping man. It was only once you looked at the table in front of him that you saw a problem. There was a plate, sitting innocently in front of him, a knife and fork still pristine and put together. On the plate, pristine and decorated, lay the man's stomach. It was still attached to him, his oesophagus protruding from a small hole in his neck, similar to a smoker's stoma, and his small intestine peeking out from beneath his buttoned-up shirt. It was gruesome. The stomach was raw, but drizzled in a chocolate-looking sauce, as though it was expected to be eaten. The detective in charge of the crime scene gagged, holding her shirt over her nose and mouth, but the smel