Muscles gone.
Organs gone.
Skin gone.
Fat gone.

You've been defleshed.
You skeleton, you're dead.
Your brain's rotting, rotting outside of your head.
No blood flow, no pulse within your flesh,
Because you've got no more flesh left.

Refleshing.

A new beginning comes after your death.
A fresh kit of flesh with your name on it.
A donor's come forward, unwilling but able.
Stripped of what's needed on the butcher's table.

Forced introduction of new tissue.
A crude replacement of flesh.
Muscles tacked right onto the bone,
Organs forced straight into your chest.

Your body restored, at least from the outside.
A skin-wrapped prize to feed to the half-blind.
A sack of used sinews, tendons and nerves.
You're sewn up and tied shut, sealed and preserved.

Refleshing.

You have been refleshed.
But you're still dead.
A worthless fucking sack of bones wrapped in a mockery of life.
But you're still dead.

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