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 stack of bones wrapped in a mockery of life.
But you're still dead.

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