Work Text:
There's something to it.
To the red seeping out,
staining everything in sight.
Sometimes it's impossible to
ever wash out.
Some things just stay crimson.
To the crunch of a bone,
sharp between my teeth.
It used to leave me with cuts
all over my tongue and cheek.
It's a wound I know how to avoid now.
To the scream of pain,
torn its way out your lips.
I'd rip out your voicebox,
but the sound is lovely.
I don't want you to die yet.
To the way it feels,
flesh chewy in my mouth.
The rawness of it is the whole point,
torn straight from the source.
There is little reason to cook it.
To the knowledge,
that there's no way back.
You'll never recover,
I will never be the same.
You're not making it out.
To the taste of meat,
one so unique.
No other thing
is like this.
Nothing could ever come close.
To the relishing,
in every single moment.
This isn't something that can
happen often.
This’ll be burnt into my mind.
To the awareness,
of it being over too soon.
Blood loss kills,
you lose it too fast.
Bloodstained lips breathe their last.
To the moment of aftermath,
where there's nothing.
A corpse is all that lays now,
unappetising as anything else.
An eye is the last thing I eat.
It's art, in a way.
I turn around,
and there you stand.
You smile,
“Had your fun?”
I smile back wordlessly,
your blood spilling from my mouth.