Nervosa
Nervosa
So he told me, look man, you gotta eat. You’re practically skin and bones. Your collarbone is seemingly carved with perfection, elbows and knees ripping the threads that hold your flesh together, and your eyes are round, your cheeks convex. You gotta eat.
So I go down on my knees and eat. I eat the stench of his girlfriend, the evidence of warmth and suffocation. I eat all his sons and daughters, their wide smiles and playful laughter, and his hands wander to the curves of my neck and tighten. I drink his excess wine, eat his sun-brightened dreams of a humble home, lush, green lawns and white picket fences. I swallow his future, hum a hungry tune as bits of his existence slide down my throat and settle on my once-empty stomach. He’s just standing there against the wall, and I’m eating him. I eat him while he’s breathing. I eat him while he is alive.
I eat him while he dies. I have never felt so full.
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sordidlilthing) wrote,
