Content Warning: Please be advised that some of the material in this piece may be disturbing or traumatizing to some readers.
It’s not mine.
It belongs to the stares.
Ripping it apart, devouring it, licking the bone once it’s bare.
Empty faces give the want away.
They gather around looking it up and down,
searching for a way in.
They haven’t eaten yet.
The growling of stomachs is deafening.
What is it worth if not naked?
What is it worth if not spread open?
Bend it, fold it, slap it, mold it.
Over and over until it breaks.
You want to be inside it, but don’t want the insides.
God forbid it bleeds.
Force it open and unhinge its jaw, you stuff it full until it gags.
Saliva dripping out the sides of an open mouth.
Choke it, spank it, bruise it, fuck it.
Don’t ever let it scream.
The words “get off me” are simply background noise,
but “get me off” is vernacular.
It’s all the same to the stares.
Something to claim, something to eat.
A piece of meat stuck between their teeth.
My tongue rolls over as I bare my stomach
to the vultures.
Torn apart, they like it raw.
Picking pieces out of their back molars, spitting on the ground.
Ill get it back when you get bored.
So just take it.
It’s not mine.
