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Rotting Ice Cream

I’m a forgotten white beast with a gleaming latch. People used to open my huge stomach flap, letting it dangle wide. I had only one purpose, to slow the time of rot, to stay the fetid hand, to separate their warm world from my cold one.

Some cracked me open and became mesmerized by my glorious light, like at the end of a tunnel, some kind of salvation to satiate their starvation.

One day a mad-man, trying to perform a lobotomy, wielded a screwdriver and hacked at my frozen thoughts. He stabbed until I bled and grew warm.

Now I sit crippled out on their acres. Still, my intestines ache to hide something unspoiled.

Little do they know, my purpose is still to be opened frequently. Upright, I’m a coffin full of electric blood. Unplugged from reality, I’m the same; still a mouth to hell that can only be opened from the outside.

Propped against a leaning shed, a small piece of curious warm meat wanders by. Thinking I hold a treat, it opens my flap, the sun glints off my dead bulb, and I swallow it whole.

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