The Feast

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I’ve had my moments of dishonesty,
but honestly
at that point I was so unhappy
you could wrap it in your hand
and the sadness would slide and seek,
bite down with teeth
into the soft blue of the veins beneath
your wrist.

Make a fist, honey,
and release—
let the blood flow openly
like your door flew open
and let her in
so quick,
your heart thick
with lust and darker things…

But I’ll tell you the consequence that rushing brings:
you do not know her.

She’ll eat you alive,
she’ll roast you at 400 degrees,
20 to 30 minutes in that heat
until you give her all of you
so she can feast
on what’s made you soft,
then chew on your bones
like she’s one of those dogs you love.

I hope she doesn’t hurt you,
but she will.
Girls like her, they get a thrill
from pounds of flesh
they pull from far beneath your chest
in the caverns of a place
where you once loved me.

You’ve probably learned to forget
what made us break:
your first mistake,
to be made more of skeleton
than heart.
You made the concept of dishonesty
an art,
then pretended it was me
who killed us.

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