I could reach into your fridge, tongue
the Hӓagen Dazs, stuff its lengthy
pint into my ever-eager mouth—
that’s the kind of sick bitch I am.

Tell me it’s unhealthy
to view each meal as a battlefield.
Tell me to fight the fork,
or not(it’s too late now

the sweat dimpling my cheek
is grease).Hold me,let me coat
your coat with whatever
decadence I dress in:

pretty swine with McIntosh
turning on the spit.The fragrant split
fruit browning my porky lips.
Feed me,

not to satisfy (impossible),
but to remind me what I cannot be
without—

what is a pig
if not unclean?If not the ungodly

gristle buttering your teeth?

I cannot be the only one
your teeth has torn into.

You are not the only teeth to cut
me down. My own mouth
gnashing—finally,
the pain outside myself.

Tell me again I’m the one who eats
everything, then feed me everything
I’ve been given: fat fuck. moose knuckle.
flabby ass. cankles.

Tell me my belt wraps the world’s waist

then beat me with it.

 
Today’s other work is “Some Girls Survive on Their Sorcery Alone” by Thiahera Nurse.