margot looked upon

a bastion for grimoires

cluttered up by cobwebs

and the bodies of houseflies,

cocooned and mummified.

the haunt was harrowing;

a singular dining table

sitting at the center of the room,

adorned in doilies and dishes galore,

the masses of black mold crowded against

blocks of french cheese,

plates of raspberry pie,

and a whopping rotisserie chicken.

a maggot wiggled out of a wine glass.

the centerpiece candelabra, whose flames

had just flickered out,

mulled and muted,

hollowed itself whilst weeping into smoke trails.

in each seat,

a guest, fastidious and unassuming,

a set of stoic skeletons,

shock written on their skulls,

fear awaiting flight,

but not being quick enough to make haste.

margot settled into her chair,

the wood knocking together

not unlike the bones in her skin sack.

across from her, a woman as young as the night befallen,

tucked into a corset dress,

her neck punctuated with a colon

and her pupils dilated.

margot slid a canvas sack across the table.

“this is everything I have,”

her words staccatoed by a phlegmy cough.

margot raised the sleeve of her blouse,

exposing her purpled skin and blood vessels for consumption,

preparing her confectionaries.

she was a bleating little lamb

with the universe in her eyes

and bags beneath them big enough to hold it.

her face wilted as she smiled,

the putrid stench of her dying flesh

percolating through the air.

“now, please.

_

devour me.”