Zombie Baby [January 7th | 6/365]

My mother won't feed me brains,
and I'm too small to reach them.

My mother used to say,
"Who's a happy little baby?"
Now she says,
"Nruhm,"
and I still say,
"Blurg."

The alive adults say,
"Oh God! Oh no!"
and "Lock the doors!"

The doors hate me.
The adults hate me.
I used to be the baby and now I'm just hungry.
I would just eat some applesauce,
but I think I'd still be hungry and I don't like it anyway.
Brains are good. Blood is good.
I never knew my father's face would taste so good.

Some mornings I crawl onto a windowsill
I look out the window and cry and shout,
"Blurg!" when I mean to say,
"I'm fucked up!"
and then I go outside and look for scraps of brains.
Some nights I play with a foot or an ear that I found,
and I gnaw on the foot or ear until I fall asleep.

I have a pet zombie cat.
He mostly leaves me alone.
He mostly eats scraps off of bones.
The next time I can't find a foot or an ear,
I'll jump on my cat and ask him to bring me to the humans,
and if he can't find him maybe I'll eat him,
but that would probably make me cry.

I cry all the time anyway.
Maybe it doesn't matter.