Appetites
By Christopher Munroe
I wouldn’t call myself a monster.
Merely a man occasionally made slave by his appetites.
The sort of man who’d never deny his desire for wine, for
song, for celebration. His appetite for every one of life’s pleasures, those
things that make living worthwhile, his appetite for joy, unquenchable.
Of appetites, unbound.
And yes, occasionally the appetite for human flesh. Ideally
the flesh of children, but in a pinch any warm human will do. Yes, that’s the
kind of man I am.
But not a monster, no, I’d never call myself a monster.
But then, I suppose no monster would….
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