I know I should find comfort in predictability
Haven’t I had enough of having my spine ripped out from behind me?
Yet the way you stare everywhere but my gaze
Midnight messages of what I tempt you with
The blatant absence of personality in the words you choose to describe me
Pretty
Funny
Smart
All trademarked generically
by countless machine operated boys I have played with before
Bore me past the point of even fleeting interest
So I fantasize about the beginning of cannibalism
Gory eroticism in the form of utter consumption
Compulsivity unbearable to the point of obsession
Because skin against skin will never sate my satisfaction
Yet I will lower my necklines and gloss my lips for you
Pose, flash on
in the darkness of a shameful Saturday night
And respond emptily to your mechanical propositions–
the only way you can digest me.

Strip me bare of my humanity
Only leaving the empty flesh behind
Does it disgust you?
Musk and desperation
Violating her girlish senses
That throat burned raw
Scraping against the red, hot, constriction
He embeds himself
In crescents around budding brown
Does it make you sick?
As they gawk and ravage
At the sight of the freshly butchered
Rising and falling then still
Sensual with vitality
Yet immature in her fruition
Rotting before she hits the ground
Does it satisfy you?
Empty, bloodless, pleasure
All in your tainted hands
Gorge on my womb
I thank God it is empty
No longer sacred by means
Of all the nameless before you
Finally, place proof of your presence
Your moment of my lifetime
And strip me bare of my humanity
Leave that empty flesh behind.