Freewrite 2, Week 8

In the South, blacks are killers. Wasps,
scourging for bodies. Chemicals clinky as
aphids banter them. That whore has hundreds.
Hundreds of eggs injected like missiles
into pre-carcasses. They don’t scream, but
eat and eat themselves, gorging on a last meal
of chlorophyll. An egg, seductive as pheromones,
bulges beneath the belly of another. Bastard, you
may call, but this surrogate won’t live. No, like so many,
this sphere explodes your limitations, implodes your
intestines like dinner-time. Abandoned by the mother
in nature, it crunches lungs as easily as thoraxes.
Ready for the bright, it hollows fight or flight and
pringles its way towards another assassination.