poem (unnamed)

i wrote this on thanksgiving i was in my feelings whatever blah blah read if you like 

i am fit tight in the warm food and sugary sweets i am blessed with, but i feel as though everybody can see me at my most essential form. i am starved of what shapes my soul, and my bones are poking through my skin. i am being ripped away at by nothing, what am i without your hands?

your palm lays still on my stomach but i am not with child, it is there only because you love me. we share an intimacy like drinking from the same glass bottle, like how i trace the curvature of your fingertips that fit so snug between my knuckles; an intimacy like surgery, i let you cut me open while i sleep. you dig through my insides, you are coated in my blood and you squeeze my beating heart. 

i am starved for the feeling that washes over me when i am reminded of your infatuation. i am remembering that the very taste of it makes me spill.

i am the meat you tear apart on your porcelain plate; blanketing me in your spit as i fulfill my only purpose. you are the god that so graciously consumes my body, swaddled in seasoning. there is something animalistic about the way we love. ignorant bleating animals, desperate. and when i die and you find my bones, you will lap up the rotten flesh that is sun bleached to them. you will gnaw at them until you reach marrow. 

your saliva is like the acid in my stomach or enough blood to make me sick. but it is beautiful and vibrant and full of life, the livelihood of our love, the feeling of the inside of your mouth. hungry. starving. we are only flesh and the organic, we are of the earth.