Taste Me

I am too full.
Bursting with ripe fruit and pestilent rot.
Sweet juice running with the bitter pus.
It pours from my every orifice.
Mingling on the lips of the ones that get close.
Every time I prick my skin on the barbs of another human I ooze and let them tap my essence until their thirst for my otherness is quenched.
Not an acquired taste but holding a potency unsuitable for tender palates.
I am a well dug in the stews of strangness.
Full of primordial ooze.
Thick soups of darkness seasoned by the sugary light.
Care for a taste?