what a fickle
flawed
fabled
a creature:
the woman
the wild
dark
apparition
in the corner.
what a fickle
thing
is love:
we hunt
we carve
we hunger
our mouths water
for a touch
of love
but when it sits
on our dinner plate
it eats
us:
a reckoning
of blood and guts.
It is only in the dark
that we are
fickle
flawed
fabled
with our stomachs
empty,
leaving love
untouched.