The Hunger

The Taco Bell is my salvation.
SARS became COVID,
Morphed into the virus,
Which became The Hunger.

Atlanta’s last stand,
The Taco Bell at 75 and Windy Hill.

The first kill was to get the dirt-bike,
The second was for the AR15.
The third was for fun.

Cutting, weaving, to the Taco Bell.
Escape my hunger.

“Let me in.”
“You clean?”
“The Hungry can’t talk, stupid.”
“Shit, get in here.”

The door opens.
But, The Hungry can talk, at least I can.
Maybe The Hunger morphed in me.
I need to feed.

My brain still works, I still talk, but I lost the human part. I just need to eat, them.

Lots of fresh meat in the Taco Bell. Slow, fat, old. The slaughter is the calm.
Time to consume.

The killing is peace, when you have The Hunger.
So many.

Taco Bell is my salvation.

J.B. Stevens lives in the southeastern United States with his wife and daughter. He is a crime fiction writer, poet, memoirist, and book reviewer. His work has been published by Thriller Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and many others. He can be found online at jb-stevens.com and on Twitter @iamjbstevens.

Categories: Poetry

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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