Devouring Devotion

I want to eat you.
I want to eat your soft, powdery white flesh
Lapping my tongue over every freckle and birthmark
as if tasting a sugary glaze.

I want to consume your lips,
your eyes, your nose, your hair, your ears.
Everything about your face that's so perfectly sculpted
it would make David ashamed of his own nakedness.
Because it would not be his nakedness
but yours, wet everywhere
from the constant salivating of the whores who pant over you
wishing they could just have one taste –
one selfish bite.

But it's all for me!

They want what I want
But they can't have what I want!
I want to strip the muscles away from bones,
gnawing on the thickness, bloated with desire.
There would be one muscle I'd save for last,
the one I would lay over while plucking the organs
from their wombs, drinking the blood like wine.
The finest wine if there ever was one.

Towards the end of the feast,
I'd feel sick to my stomach
while scratching the remnants of tendons
still dangling to the bones.
I want to eat every part of you
but there is nothing left.

But I want more. I must have more!

I want to eat the very essence of your being,
feel it push down my esophagus into my stomach.
Be pushed, churned, tortured by the acid then digested.
Every part being used by my body.

The desire is so intense,
my stomach groans and aches all the more.
It turns inward and I retch,
vomiting all traces of you in a fountain of
red, acidic slime and thick globs
of partially chewed flesh.
In one seismic toss, you're laid out on the table
where I had dined.

I want to eat you,
wanted too,
had too,

Even chewed up and regurgitated
you look so good – so good
I am compelled to sip up my own vomit,
tainted by my poisonous bile,
to reclaim you.

But the essence is lost.

What a waste.