I would reach into your festering wound, infecting it with fingers sticky with puss, just to harvest the maggots and free you from their wet sucking lips.
I would carve out my own blackening heart, let it dissolve on your cracked purple tongue and slide down your throat into your stagnant stomach acid.
I would tear off my finger nails and place them on your blistering palm so that your corpse could claw its way through its tomb of earth and worms.
I would grind your bones to dust just to keep the vultures from picking at the fragments of rotting muscle left to wither inside the corroding crevices.
By Tyler Turner