Distressed

I know every one of these serrated smiles all too well.
They scream bottom feeder, scum, you're a plague to us all.
I know every one these naysayers, and their hacksaw smiles all too well.
You speak with forked tongues and walk the way serpents crawl.
The stench of hunger is in the air.
A 1000 grinning blades grinding their teeth back and forth.
The taste of blood. accused,
My flesh burns away as the onslaught readies their fork.

(to be revised and reworked later)