Devour Me

Love is a mouth with too many teeth,

a hungry thing, gnawing, gnashing,

biting down to the marrow

and calling it devotion.

Love is a carcass dressed in silk,

a rotting thing made pretty,

syrup-sweet words dripping

from lips that bruise when they kiss.

"I love you," you tell me,

and it feels like the snap of a bear trap,

like rusted nails driven into tender flesh,

like honey laced with glass shards.

You do love me.

The way ivy loves the walls it strangles,

the way fire loves the home it razes,

the way hunger loves the body it wastes away.

You have eaten every soft part of me,

left nothing but brittle bones and hollow eyes,

and still, you lick your lips,

your hands greedy, your stomach empty.

Love me, love me, love me.

Until my ribs crack beneath your grip,

until my skin peels back beneath your claws,

until there is nothing left

but a name in your mouth

and a corpse in your bed.