Lately, the meals bear marks. Long holes, gored through and chewed apart. The indent of trampled grass rings them in broad line.
Tusks and hooves.
A trick of the light — perhaps — or of the creeping thing that each new day winds thicker through his blood. In an instant, he blinks, and the scene is as it was.
Undisturbed and silent; save the soft hum of silver in the grass.
Red River Hog (Potamochoerus porcus) piglets running, native to Africa by zssd minden pictures
…what if we’re ALL demons wearing meat-suits, but at some point we forgot… and the voices inside our heads, our consciences, are the real people trapped inside… begging us to do no harm?
fuck that’s deep