I'm hungry. So very hungry. My eyes have grown teeth like The Corinthian's, but instead of wide, pulpy orbs frozen in terror, they are taking in wordsandwordsandwords of black against white, of white against green, of nametags and machines and license plates and spreadsheets and, and, and. As fast as I see them, they are gone, flowing through into me, becoming me, shoring me up, but as soon as I am sated I am hunting again. Watch my eyes, they will go flickflickflick. They are recording this, each word, each color, each glimmer in the glass, the rings in the trees.
Sometimes they come back up again, pressing through my lips, but I've learned to shut them and smile around my teeth while they press and press and press around the cracks, whistling faintly like wary spirits until I throw them back down into my belly where they churn like some obscene mixture of bile and honeyed wine. Other times they are an army in my spine, putting down roots and twining up like ivy into my brain where they put out leaves and bloom into green behind my eyes, trying to escape.
Then I sign treaties with them and armistices and in the night I betray them and come in with a knife, with my fingers, and I pull them out and fling them down into paper, into bits, into new words, but they never, never, never come back out the same way. In my belly, now, they are plotting a revolution of prose and verse and descriptivism. The nouns are sleeping at fires with adjectives, the images are a hungry, angry herd of horses, resentful for slavery.
But I'm more cunning than them, you see, I'm hungry. They come out of me in great, braided strings of flowery prose, in zen-like rows of haiku, in bright bursts of imagery. Wordletting, I open the vein where they riot and they come bursting from my fingers, my mouth, smooth like honey, heavy with mood. Rarely, they breed down there, metaphors and characters and stories and ideas, and these, the most dangerous, are the generals that I must kill first.
I bury their bodies where the others can't find them, but I sabotage myself by leaving memorials behind where everyone can find them and remark on them, and this of course fuels the rest into anarchy. They burn, they burn, they burn, and out more come pouring like insects, until they are hungry, so hungry, like my eyes are hungry and can't stop reading eating seeding more revolution until all I am are the words and the stories and the words and a thousand newborn leaves exploding from my eyes and curling down my shoulders and over my chest like hair, like tentacles, like vines.
When they strangle me and I'm buried, bodhi trees filled with dryads will grow and lure poets and storytellers to their death of roots and leaves and words words words.