To Be Devoured

by Sara Tantlinger

Do not dwell in graveyards. Do not dwell in graveyards.

“Cows are restless this morning,” he continues, as if I asked.

She was the night come to life, a dewdrop of shimmering darkness wearing a bubblegum pink dress and matching heels.

Their bodies digesting inside another body. Bones and organs, blood and marrow, absorbing and taking what each part needs to survive.

The longing to hold something dead against my tongue consumes me like a starvation. The power of it floods my body stronger than the sin of wrath ever has. Can dead flesh hold anger? Mine would. Mine would be the most excruciatingly bitter of them all.

The yearning to crawl inside the warmth of her washes over me like the steamed heat of an opened oven door. For her, I would disintegrate inside steam. For her, I would burn.

I am projecting my feelings into a manifestation of noise.

But at least it is my ending, my bitter devouring. At least it is something they cannot take from me.