Expired

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.