“My consuming lust was to experience their bodies.”
−Jeffrey Dahmer
1.
There’s something tragically romantic
about wishing death on something
because it is weak. A possum
shovels her offspring into her mouth,
those hairless, pitiful creatures,
as if consuming them would return them
into her womb. The babies’ eyes remain
glued shut—they huddle together,
pink with blood, curled inside
their mother's gaping maw.
2.
I watched my father excavate the remains
of the prolicide; the mother's bones fossilized
in a protective U-shape around the splintered,
softened bones of her children, now eroded
by gastric acid. This is the most
visceral expression of love.
3.
The thing is
I get off on knowing peoples’ secrets.
One: how his face outlines a scream when
he’s gasping for air, my hands fastened
around his neck. Two: his guts
strewn across my kitchen counter,
wine-red flesh, avant-garde artwork.
I pin his skin wide open, like a lab rat,
exposing his glossy innards. With my ear against
his quiet heart, I listen—for a brief moment
He is mine.