Soft flesh is eaten by hard teeth.

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?

We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.

I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?

Here it comes. My inevitable death, ignoring me all those years when I wished for it daily, arriving only after I've decided I want to live forever.

I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.