Devoured
You ate everything I lay before you,
Plucked my eyes, licked your fingers,
and waited for me to give you more.
As I smelled your musky scent, you played
games and stole my nose, refusing
to give it back, choosing instead to
nibble on it while I slept dreaming of you.
Next you devoured my mouth: lips, tongue,
and teeth, disguising your hunger as lust.
Slowly you made your way through my skin,
you had softened it with sweet whispers
and smooth promises and your touch.
Your coup de grace was my heart.
I gave it willingly, in folly, believing the
silver platter upon which it beat would
inform you it was meant to be kept safe.
But your hunger knows no etiquette, is not
versed in finer things: You used a salad
fork for the aorta! A shrimp fork on the
ventricle! A butter knife for cutting! before
giving in, throwing napkins aside, and picking
up my still beating heart and plunging
yourself into the flesh.
Blood-smeared, victorious, you looked at me
with your unhidden face, but it was too late,
for my heart was devoured and my body was yours.
I was no more.
Karen Cline-Tardiff has been writing as long as she could hold a pen. Her chapbook Raccoon is available from Esperanza Publishing. Her works have appeared in several anthologies and journals, both online and in print. She stays up too late and snoozes her alarm past any reasonable time. She is founder and Editor-in-Chief of Gnashing Teeth Publishing. Find her at karenthepoet.com
