Thrills and spills

 It's that time of year again, when our pretty little friend Melanoma gets herself out and about, and decides to walk across this already cancer-riddled frame of mine.  The exquisite agonies more than make up for the fact that (due solely to the number of amputations) I haven't been able to persuade even farmyard animals to have sex with me in the past three years.  I relish my discomfort, honestly I do.
        The sun beats down on me, and I can feel the ultra-violet being ultra-violent to my skin, peeling away the last protective layers I have left and flensing my flesh.  The infra-red heats me from the outside in, and I sometimes wish that the microwaves from the sun be strong enough that they could also heat me from the inside out; I cook so much more evenly then.

        Melanoma whispers her sweet nothings in my ears; of cool white sheets and hospital beds with hot and cold running sores (I'm sure she means nurses really, the darling is just trying to wind me up), of doctors who sigh and tsk like they mean it, of a loving wife (who died three years ago of terminal frustration having sex with a bread knife, and so would be sat at my bedside in an advanced state of decomposition -- I don't want the competition!) and children who don't want my inheritance because it might be contaminated.
        All of these things, just because I lowered the lid on the
sunbed, and the timer went wrong, so I can't get out, and it's been
nearly a week now.  Hunger is making me delirious, but another five
minutes and I'll be done enough to eat.  I'm only meat.

The End

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