#how that eroticism erodes the ability to be whole outside a relationship

[dyke-a-saur-writes]

Bones and all. She slurped, chewed, crunched, and tore with jagged fingernails, breath uneven, blood smeared ear to ear. I love you, she cried, over and over. I love you, I love you, I love you. I know, she replied, offering up her entire arm, smiling softly as she let her consume her, and truly take, and take, and take.

When her teeth finally hit bone, she glared at her, eyes full of clarity, and she was ashamed. The meal lay placid, shivering, sweaty, glaze-eyed. Shame, an ancient and powerful feeling. How fitting, that the history of eating that which we shouldn’t is as long as the history of recoiling, shrinking, and shriveling up on oneself.

What’s the matter? Don’t I taste amazing? Do you not wish to keep eating?

You’re sick. You’re sick, sick, sick. And she grabbed her coat. Where do you think you’re going? You’ve still got blood on your face. There was. And blood on the carpet. And on the drapes. And on the bed. God the bed.

“Adah,” she murmured. “Come here.” And because she could not deny her, deny herself, deny her hunger, she came. And would keep coming back. She stumbled, hair matted, makeup smudged, tearstreaked. She shambled, blood and meat sloshing in her belly. She fell, mightily, head first into the still mauled, still bleeding, still smiling Monique’s lap.

“What’s wrong with me?” whimpered the glutton, blood caked fingernails fisting into the meal's white dress.

“You love,” whispered Monique, stroking the lover’s hair over and over, finger detangling, taking her time with knots as coiled tight as their owner’s shame. “You are a lover.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

Adah tore herself away from the meat of her meal’s thighs. She turned again and grabbed her coat.

“Goodbye, Monique.”

“Goodbye, Lover.”

Lover exits stage left.