Tonight I eat stew from my own skull, and roll my knuckles like dice across the stained table. Moths batter their wings against a chandelier made of my broken ribs, and my heart is locked inside a polished ivory box hidden beneath a loose floorboard.
There are parcels and letters piling up by the front door, and figures dressed in black robes scuttle up and down the street outside, cigarettes stuffed into the corners of their mouths.
My flayed skin hangs neatly over the towel rail in the upstairs bathroom. It drips, and the sky drips too: it leaks a black substance that is thick like tar but hovers in delicate tendrils just above the pavement. The sky is coming apart, but the black-clad figures just smoke, and pace, and ignore my Charnel House.