you tell me you’re a cannibal,
and I tell you:
that’s fine,
I’ve been around,
I’ve dated men plenty of times,
I’ve adjusted to morose habits before.
in fact,

my newest craze is
autosarcophagy:
find the trauma and just swallow
another old neg or two:
a curse word, a punch directed at the wall,
a public critique of  an outfit or body part
or everything at once.
a light strangle in the sheets,
a little sexual coercion to get me started.

                                        that means you were just tired but wanted it

sometimes the spleen is replete with blockages
and I just feast on past rapes
until I’m obese with past places
that rocked me gently to sleep

                                                   I was just tired but wanted it

like a noose,
but worn tastefully.

                               that means privately
                                 without outcry

intestines enlarged with
“smile, honey!” and “whore whore”
my sacral remembers every sensual score
of every man that touched me while I was
peacefully sleeping in my inebriation,

                          that means deserved

and every man that grabbed me on the subway car
and every boy that rubbed me as a little girl
and every man that watched me hang myself
first,
before he would get his dick involved,
and I’ve dined on my own tongue:

                            loyal, quaking tongue,
                               flush with recollection and
                                     shaking prologues

for so long,
even a yawn at the wrong time causes her to bloat
in ignominious retreat,
that it might be fun to have a little help
disappearing completely

         no, no, you sit, I’ll stand, I’ve taken up way too much space anyhow

and
if we both get started
there may be
nothing left of me by dawn
to hold onto
or photograph and paste all over your
own wall,
 or fuck,
intimidate in alleyways
                 mind the rope there
or ignore.

 

and wouldn’t that be something
kind of new for you,
boy?

“you up?”

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