Prepped in wax,
my stomach trusses like a chicken
under my dusted, little, black dress,
while his eyes smolder her half buttoned
shirt,
her flat chest that appetitizes his fingers
when she wants to crumble inside his palm.
She smirks at me across the table
where she possesses the muteness of his thumb
toothpicking drowned calamari in
fire-breathing red,
and my eyes fuck the assassin’s scimitar
slaughtering my rare, filet in the window
behind her over-exposed neck.
My bitten tongue foreplays with tikal Malbec
as it bleeds like the carcass dropped
on my heavy, porcelain plate, and my fist
stabs
each tender, juicy, bite slowly— twisting
each tine,
deep into my serrated, tortured steer,
while her cow-skinned stilettos chew up his
feet
below my chin and roast her rack of lamb
right in front of his processed pig.
And I wonder what he whispers to her
through his lips that have gorged on more
than just my skin,
when he has ingested my erotic moans and
molded caves into his dick.
I imagine it’s something more than my swine
vile that quenches his thirst,
like a pedophile who strangles a cherry just
to take its breath away,
like an apple devoured every spring.
And I realize when her thighs begin to curd
into cottage cheese,
his mouth will water for my home-made
recipes.
She will mold like old bread that will always expire
and he will chuck her in the garbage like the
rest of his leftovers.
