Starved for Reciprocation

I can feel my emotions simmering

frothy boil will have them

rushing past my lid

can you catch it before

they’re all out on the table?

bypassing the choking feeling in your throat

You don’t want to actually feel something

do you?

broth is the best part of the dish

I remember when you asked for my tongue

as if I had a say

scissors poised for my reluctant muscle

your blades are sharp

one quick snip is all you need

like a hair my voice is detached from its anchor

retiring against your cold cutting board

I plead for you to stop

odd strangled noises escape

instead of my soft tone

garbled shrieks stick to my larynx

with nothing to convey my message

my glazed eyes look on to your crude hands

the same hand that slipped past my walls

dicing up the soggy slab

tossing the cubes in the pot

I knew your intentions

no chains held me there

just those hands that

carefully cleansed the wounds

it had created

I had heard the blade

sing against my flesh

again again

appendage after appendage

until I was just a clatter of bones

even sawing off my ears

to keep your lies from making me sick

it was for my own good

somehow your lies still sink into my mind,

rotting out my pink matter

I wondered how long it would’ve been

until it’s ready

I’ve been hungry for quite sometime

I’m never fed

I waited

I knew my eyes were next to go

into the pot.

or maybe a garnish?

confusion draped along my brow bone

as I was propped into a chair

dining table set for two

the ghost of my stomach groaned at the thought

of reciprocation

honey dipped eyes gazed

towards your end of the table

you dipped your ladle into the pot

and then

I knew

why you left

my orbs in these hallowing sockets

you strangle my eyes with your glare

smug glint dances

as crows feet tiptoed the ridge of the pit

taunting me with an empty set of dishes

I want to send them crashing to the ground

but I have no strength

I want to pummel you into the festering pulp

you deserve to be

but I have no fists to fight

I’m bound to this seat with no purpose.

Except to watch you slowly

consume me.

When you finally finish licking the pot clean

punctuated with a roaring belch

you stride towards my body

admiring your work

frosty looks slide over me

and that beautiful hand caresses my face

thumbing at my rough cheek

I hate the sting of excitement that

echoes in my chest

“good thing I saved room for dessert,”

you mouth as a thumb plunges into my socket.

Pop pop!