THE GUEST VI

The rumble.

Your guest claps their lips like thunder, and lightning rolls up your spine. The glee from that first meeting has sunk deeper and is no longer fleeting. You knocked their chair over, and over, and over. Full of a rolling spite. And each night, it’s set right. Your guest. Guest! Ha! Specter shadow in the distant night. Trying to become a ghost, but they didn’t know. The table they sat at. The company they tried to keep. You are a massacre. A necromancer of the masochistic variety. What a show this table has become! What a dangerous host you are, so full of self sabotage. An exchanging of your violent weaponry, you request with a full set of teeth. Your guest counters, a succinct promise of violence on their lips. Your jaw is yawning, the great devourer of pain. Your, guest, persistent occupation of flesh and blood, made shadow and flame, has an arsenal, of fluent weaponry whose subject of choice seems to be you. 

END PTVI