Souls for Breakfast

Poem by Annie Hartley

For breakfast last Monday,

I ate a soul because there was

Nothing left to eat in the pantry.

I sautéed it with a little bit of

Olive oil and just a dash of basil.

The light dancing tones of Mozart

Covered up the anguished, burning screams.

On the plate, the soul looked like an

Egg omelet in a black and white photograph.

It tasted like fresh baked cookies.

I think her name was Reyna.

Now even the coldest ice cream burns like fire

In my mouth, and when I look in the mirror,

My tongue is charred and bloody,

And my gums leak a clear, slimy pus.

Another soul will take the pain away,

But the supermarkets and organic food stores don’t advertise:

“Fresh caught human souls for sale. Only $4.99 per pound.”

It’s too bad, really. It would be a good money maker for them.

I killed my first victim today.

I drove my butcher knife into her throat,

And held a mason jar up to the wound to catch

The slippery soul as it spilled out along with the thick red blood.

I left her body for the police to find and bury.

I owe her that much at least.

This time, I made scrambled eggs, and they tasted like garden grown tomatoes.

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