Can of Worms

220 20 0

by drippings

by drippings

CAN OF WORMS

there's a desire to be eaten, to be swallowed and chewed down, sucked dry to the bone. the feast of a god, the last supper.

to lay down,

spread open before their feet
and picked apart,
dissected to feel the burn –

the fire.

the hands gentle, fingers wringing out what's left of you — is this love?

it's hunger, they mouthed. human instinct, eat or be eaten. survival of the fittest. do we love in order to survive? is it only our bodies we have to offer? do we rot for love?

picked apart to be eaten,

sucked dry to the bone —

is this love?

and when there's nothing left to stir, are we rewarded for the sacrifice? when we crawl out of their stomachs, all teeth and skin, and no other way to remain clean, are we still hailed for?

is desire nothing more than being swallowed?

is this my body—

my wine, my blood,

my salvation—

do we love, to offer?

do we love, to take?

picked apart and left to rot,

sucked empty, a dead prey in the prairie, glossed over from when love proclaimed it as a sacrifice and held it down by the neck—

is this all you have to offer?

do we rot, for love?

do we die, for love?

do we have no say at all, nothing but bodies that fill the hunger, quench the drought, feed the fire,

spat out right after, gurgled and left to
decompose, asking if this is all for love —

are we really bodies,

or are we nothing at all?

— Can of Worms
²⁰²¹