Gore anyone?

Summoned from a bloody corpse,
Scraping flesh from my own whithering body.
Covered in blood
Pooling at my feet,
Severed skin hanging loosely
Around my neck and wrists.

My hands are tied
By the tongue of my father.
And while I walk,
His skin on my back,
Flaps in the wind.
I can hear you moan.
Yearning for death.
And now, mother
The time has come.

My teeth quiver.
Laughing quietly
They dig into your chest.
And now it lies,
Like a gallery,
Showing beautiful pieces of work.
I reach my hands into the bloody pit,
Grasping your heart.
The last of your bloods drips innocently
And trickles down along my arm.

There mother,
Are you satisfied?
What I've done
Is what your tongue
Has done to me.