After we die, invading our bodily cavities. The young of insects feed. On our inactive brains. And numb spinal chords. Open sores drain slow. Spouting yellow pus - from us.
Rotting alive. Tearing my way through the meat. Driven to kill, my brain twitching for guts. Devoted to evil. Severed arteries gush. Hungry for the blood.
Swollen with liquid. Ready to burst. A load of my lymph. Will quench this dead bosy's thirst. One month in the grave. Twisted and half decayed. She turned a putrid yellow.