I spent an hour awake
tired out of my own sick mind
trying to find a moment
when this body
this infection
living on my bitter brain
(the same as his
might I say)
when this
‘tired of your eyes’
skin tight frame
wasn’t treated like meat
offal and blood beat
a pulp
spat and secreted
I try and imagine a moment
when there won’t be someone
who would find me appetising
want to bite or tear
and consume me
from child to mother to old age
in and between
every centimetre of life
and it’s sort of funny
suffocating
body rid of air
or worse
purpose
when you realise
you’ll never not see that glare
side eyed stare
at my skin
my pink speckled flesh
gross and unloved
but still makes him salivate
pleading for more
there isn’t a time
I’m afraid
when I am not there to ingest
And it all comes back to him
looking at me
a girl looking at a boy looking at a girl