I don't know if this is poetry or prose...
Croft doesn’t understand. What is it about him that everybody dislikes?
So what if he has scratchity skin and walks around in ripped clothes that he found in a dumpster? He’s poor.
So what if he’s got shoes made from hollowed out kittens with severed legs and the tail stuck to the heads? He’s creative.
So what if he smells like burnt fish, alcohol, heroine and rotting flesh? He’s got habits he’s not proud of, don’t we all?
Who cares if he brings dolls to school and chews their heads in class? He’s lonely. He needs a friend.
Why’s it so bad when he vomits on himself in the lunch queue and puts everyone off? He only eats from scummy plugholes and dusty corners of his desk.
Who gives a shit if he pulls his hair out and rubs the strands between his fingers? He likes feeling the pinch, the pull and release.
Who cares if he gave himself a rectal prolapse with a letter opener and force fed the contents to his encaged parents? He likes it when the family get together.
He likes to drink his own semen. So what? It’s free, he likes the taste. He likes to tongue the sperm against the roof of his mouth and feel it squirm like living jelly.
What about his teeth that he filed into fangs? Well who cares? He did it to himself to sharpen his appetite.
But what about that kid he bit who started a fight? He didn’t mean to bite him hard; self defence against a bully.
But the kid died. Croft didn’t mean to kill him either. He found a new taste for flesh, so what?