My Heart Tastes like Chicken

I gave you my heart,
ripped it from my chest
where it lay comfortably nestled
between lily white rib bones
and family dinners in front of the television.

You picked it up daintily
between your fingers
as if it weren’t alive,
as if it weren’t throbbing madly,
as if it weren’t spilling blood all down your white shirt.

You took one nibble,
then another.
Some pieces you rolled around on your tongue,
let slide slickly down the back of your throat.
Others you sucked clean,
until the raging scarlet of my insides turned to a pale pink on your lips.

One bite was distasteful to you,
so you spit it out.
I watched as it dribbled from your mouth
and tumbled to the floor
where the cat gobbled it to bits

You rose up from your chair and turned away from me,
chunks of my heart trailed behind you
like bread crumbs for the vultures.
Stop! I whispered.

If you don’t want it, give it back to me!
It’s all I have
You turned back and smiled at me,
sinewy bits stuck between your teeth.
“It tastes like chicken”


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