I have dug knives in your shoulders
carefully, and they are still trying to
go deeper into your warm flesh-
I am sorry, dear, but I don’t know if
I can remove all of them without
spilling any more blood than what
already runs off the valleys of your back.
I have shot at your belly so you
can never bear any children,
and bullets are all you can digest now-
I am sorry, dear, but I don’t know
how many bullets I can yank out of
your stomach without starving you
of the lead you were forced to feed upon.
I have carved flesh out of your limbs,
trying to eat it raw but my stomach refuses
to process the ache and tenacity of your muscles-
I am sorry, dear, but I don’t know
how many days I can survive without
devouring your identity and vomiting
as I revel and say “You’re mine, mine, mine.”
