You, My Lunch
You really loved to write about me. You wrote for hundreds of people about our relationship, but I had stumble upon it by accident. It shocked me, the things you wrote, the names you called me. According to you I was making you miserable, eating away at you from the inside. I took your heart out and ripped it out of your chest and then ate it raw. The blood dripping down my throat and into my shirt. Everything was my fault. You just couldn’t tell me it was over and I didn’t know how to take a hint.
The heart part was the worst, I couldn’t believe you wrote that. That I metaphorically devoured your heart. I’m sorry about that babe.
You keep coming to my mind while I cut a piece of meat on my plate that used to be your liver. You taste really good babe and you go perfectly with some Pinot Noir. You wrote I couldn’t take a hint, but I did take it. You wanted me to eat you and I am. And you taste real good babe, real good.
I take another sip of wine and think about tomorrow. I’ll have some of your breast tomorrow. I think I’ll be in the mood for some breast. I’ll leave your heart for last.