One day my teeth will betray me.
I’ll bite clean through
meat, gristle, fat.
Vegetarianism falls flat
when your demon is splayed out
on the kitchen table.
I’m a liar. I’m a truth teller.
Know this about me.
I do not crave veg, fruit, bread.
I’m no honeybee.
It’s always been about flesh
with little desire
for the flower.
The more my palms manipulate
between these two warm lips
the better.
I want an overfilled larder,
an organized walk-in pantry,
lined with rows of specimens.
I am a greedy needy girl.
Ignore me lover at your peril.
I will stage a hunger strike
requiring a forced feeding.
Oh, my unending appetite!
I can’t be bothered to tame it.
The devil is always ready.
It’ll claw itself up and out
my pitted heart and esophagus,
tickle the epiglottis
until
I spew stew
onto
the dinner plate.
I want to slip a knife
through its rolls
and fucking end me.
Pass the butter.
Carmilla Dawn 