When you started eating me, starting from the feet, my hands were in your hair and my eyes

were on you and it felt nice for us both I think, I rolled my hips when you reached my thighs,

and now the flesh is so deep it won’t come back out of your throat. There is nowhere to go

but further.

When we need a change, you pin me down and slice open yourself until you drip down my

chest, and this used to be fun but I can’t look anymore, so I turn my head and stare out a

black window as your blood runs across my cheek, and the wetness is no longer mine but

yours, and I try not to swallow, because I thought you were in me, I thought I was all you,

but I am in you too and you’re going to want me out.

You think you want to eat every inch of me, you keep trying to pull me deeper, but no matter

how far I go I will never finish drinking you down back, like you really want, and as soon as

you figure that out I think you’ll spit my rubbed-raw legs out, and you’ll leave your teeth in

me, and it will hurt. I can’t spit your blood back, that’s done, but I’ve stopped drinking it, are

you close to done with me? I can get out before it starts to hurt you, I want to make it gentle,

both of us have bled enough. I should know you’ll make me pull.

I’m afraid of touch again now. I think you remember, you were generous enough to listen to

me while your mouth was busy. I think I remember telling you you can hurt me all you

want, if you’ll only feel bad for it after. I want to ask if you remember that too. I want to ask

if my legs taste like guilt. I’m looking back from the window to ask you, any second now, as

soon as your mouth isn’t filled with me. I think I’ll try to kiss it off you, and you can lick back

your blood, and we’ll both keep the tears to ourselves.

I tried to make your end my beginning, but so far I’m not doing very well