SCARED

SCARED



It’s been seven days.
Seven days since the farmer stuffed my insides into a shirt and placed my head atop my shoulders.
When he had finished, he gazed at me lovingly, his bright eyes gleaming with pride.

I felt wonderful that first day, my freshly carved head smelled sweet and my jagged smile was genuine.
That night, the farmer brought his family to see me.
They set a candle in my mouth and my eyes lit up, reflecting in their own as they danced around me…

…But then they just left me hanging here…

Every morning the farmer comes by and pokes at the ground around me. He hardly even looks my way.
I want to scream at him, to beg for his attention but no sound escapes my cut lips.
My smile feels wrong now, and I wish I could frown.

They call me the scare of crows, but the crows don’t care.
They sit on my head and shit on my shoulders as they peck holes in my face with their keen beaks…

…I’m the one who’s terrified…

I’m losing my mind out here with nothing but the static view of cornfields unfolding before me and the incessant crows tearing me apart.

I feel myself rotting.
The orange flesh of my face softens and bruises and the divine aroma that once filled my head has turned acrid and vile.
A family of flies nests inside me and I feel their maggots writhing in my nostrils.
It rained last night and my innards are wet.
My soul shudders …

…It’s been seven days and I wish to die…