fork and knife

this is a narrative detailing the last series of photos — supper / home / bedside / cradle / cornered / rinse / ascension / memorial

Across the small of your back, I dug
my claws in deeper, hoping only
to break the skin. It was a quiet attack
but I left my mouth open so you
could fit in. Out between the gaps
in my teeth, you tried to climb, taking
your time to leave the taste on my tongue.
I have your scent in my sights and your
innocence will be gone. Turning my eyes
so that you won’t see the terrible things
my thoughts have done. Each one taking
a turn with temptation, face to face
with the rape of my inclinations.
Insight interjects, “My mind! What is it
we have done?! We’ve turned a child
into a treat of hands and teeth, giving in
to greed, salivating at the mouth
with the thought of a feast.” She will make
a fine decoration to drape this bed, the plate
from which I will feed. Afterwards I rinse
above the neck and below the wrists, but
no matter how hard I wash and wish,
these utensils will never be clean.


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