Photo by Annie Spratt via Unsplash
Darling, you have claimed a home within me
between the back of my eyelids and my thick, fragile skull
you weren’t meant to stay, and yet
mangled orange peels lay strewn across the kitchen table
and I have gouged nail marks in my eyeshadow.
Red ribbons run down my back,
skin stretching, writhing over bone
the fruits of my labour lay crushed on the floor.
the breeze sighs through the window.
I am all gooseflesh and soft animal.
I have wasted nights peeling carrots and potatoes
harvesting herbs and buying cream
mixing and baking and tasting and savouring,
yet the stew is cold by nights end,
leaving the illusion of abundance.
Through my destruction, you remain
persistently parasitic.
I have not eaten for days, thanks to you.
Do you enjoy seeing my heartbeat through exposed ribs?
Have you not made a meal of me?
Oh, darling, allow me this, just once.
I’m already threadbare.
There is nothing left for you to conquer.
I am yours, just finish the job
