I Would Be Fed

Occasionally I see you,
and I want to peel your skin away
and wear it.

I would make a gorgeous you,
but I would get to keep all of my insides.
I like my insides best,
but I like your outsides better than my own.

I wonder if I could become a bug,
a seed,
a virus,
something that could get into you.
You would breathe me in
from a rose
or a daisy your children brought you.

I would take bites out of your lungs,
until I could breathe for you.
Or if you swallowed me,
I would burrow into
the soft meat of your belly,
and begin to swallow it,
replace it.

You would not be fed —
I would be fed.

The cancer of me would swell within you,
and you would be stretched thin,
but only for a bit,
until I could eat the last of you,
envelope your bones

and fit inside that smooth, sweating skin of yours
that put me in mind
of someone in love with her own refusal of shame.

I would leave behind your life,
and return to my own,
and people would gasp, and say ‘Where are you going?’

and everyone else would mourn the loss of me
until I opened our mouth,
and came out.

Your memories would be gone.
You would be gone.

It isn’t that I hate you,
it’s that I think I prefer your skin to my own,
and I would love to try it out,

even if it meant murder,
and widows,
and orphans,
and vast oceans of confusion.


Talk back to me. Trust me; I'm listening.

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