Consumption
She sits at the table’s head, consuming. I am laid out, splayed out and splattered
All across the setting. She slurps and burps and
I am not quite here anymore
Drifting lifting and back and she is
Eating what might be a part of my liver. The pumps and drips that keep me here
Freshly drone with sickly boredom, and the smell of antiseptics could turn my stomach
Were it not set so lovingly on fine china seven feet forward and to my left.
She’s gorged upon me bloated and I clutch consciousness as she slowly stands to walk
The length of the great feasting table
To touch my face
Her nails running lines of pain that I have long since become dull to
I only wait
For those lips
Wet with the life of me
To
Touch
Mine.