The Guilty Pleasure.

I am a monster, for this is my guilty pleasure:
The acrid, sour-sweet smell of it doesn't get to me;
A vat of acid, full to the brim,
Filled with bodies, one hand on the rim.

The first two fingers: burned away,
The rest, still twitching, poor soul.
I thought I'd enjoy it, this burning of flesh,
Souls detaching from bodies in decay...

That hand's symbolic, funny I'd think so,
Even with its ringed fourth finger,
Still moving, I wonder how?
I take a peek inside, my face leaning over...

The hissing of chemicals undoing life,
Was better heard, from just above the barrel,
Just for an instant, before I tipped over.
Over I went, slowly falling...

I put out my hands: at least I'd save my face,
But no, they melted away along with the rest:
Into the air.
I even got a whiff this time, before falling in.

I landed hard, bouncing up and down,
I writhed and spun and clung at my nose,
Trying to get rid of that sour-sweet smell.
Then I looked around, at my familiar, grey cell.

I rolled over; nothing but a nightmare.
The vat of acid had come to me in the yard that day,
In a hopeful stream of thought;
Revenge. Power. Freedom.

I am a monster.
It is my guilty pleasure.