you lick your lips, hunger settling in
say a prayer before your meal of sin
crude sentiments whispered like a hymn

(and so)   feverish flesh lie flat on a platter
         though i hardly get a say in the matter
       on how and when i am to be devoured

(and yet)              i give and feed
                        the male ego, preening
                 at the sound of forced satisfaction

(all the while)     black beetle eyes roam
                          i close my own, pretending
                  that you gaze upon my heated flesh
affectionately.