I am not supposed to anger,
so i tread very
carefully.

his meal has arrived –
it is me, clothed in sheer
wonderment (and lace,
always lace).
feeding hour is upon
us.

the rules of this
relationship are as
follows – crack my bones
so he will have an easier time
with the breaking.
smother his mouth
over my broken claws.
lick the blood as it pours
down his chin.

but did i know this when
i became his dinner
plate? maybe,
the body that closes
knows it will be hurt.

the body dissipating,
the butter melting.

it is the end of an era –
the plate is cleared,
the pain should be pulsing
but i do not feel it anymore.

i do not feel it anymore.