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You know, I could chew right through the moon.
In fact, I have multiple times.
He smiles loosely, unburdened by the weight of my teeth.
I show him my hands, my fingers longer than this.
The nails are perfect crescents, unvarnished, the way I prefer them.
He doesn’t love me. He professes to not know how.
And I am a terrible, lazy mentor. Why should I bother, despite the ravenousness of my heart?
I am so fucking gentle. I bite at the bit.
Not nearly as gentle as he. I twitch, and he watches the caged beast through the bars, confident in his power, unafraid.
He underestimates my bite. He thinks women are small. We are the same height.
But, Christ, do I want him. I want his perfect, doll-like body. I want his hand at my neck, holding me still.
Am I playing with my food? Am I a beast?
The way I bite into apples and pistachios is unseemly. I love green, crunchy things. I chew through life.
I am suspicious of peace and man-made things.
He’s left me now, and my fingers are burned to the wick.
My love goes unanswered, and still I chew through the moon.
The Sleeping Gypsy || 2324 AZ USA 11.04.24