The Way to a Man’s Heart is through His Stomach

Your stare saturates
me to the point
where my insides
slouch from the weight
of it all.

Muscle and bone become
mucky, sodden,
soggy like day-old
red velvet cake.

You reach in
and grab,
handful by greedy handful,
place the pieces in perfect
form on the taintless
silver platter I’ve filled
for you for years now.

Bits beneath your nails
that got trapped while you made
perforations on my surface

you now scoop out
with your fat tongue
that isn’t strong enough
to utter the language
of swallowed sinew.