What would I look like if
you turned me inside out,
wrapped sharp fingers around my intestines,
drank the salty-sweet cocktail
of blood and bile,
chewed my wagging tongue,
poked and picked at
the gristle of my heart?

Would you write
shiny, red stanzas
with each pump of my heart
while sipping the unspoken words
clogging my throat?
Boil my bones in crockpots
with parsley and onion?

Would you crack brittle ribs
and gnaw through cartilage,
only to find my name
etched across my breastbone?
And would you say it,
or pretend you forgot
how to read?

Would your face grow greasy,
your knuckles red,
your knees bruised,
your tongue sated?
Would you use my finger bones
to pick your teeth?

Am I a feast before you?
A salty afternoon snack?
A sticky, steaming bath?
A bouquet of tangy odors?
A rainbow of fleshy indulgence?

And would the squish of my innards
finally silence the glittering
judgment that
shines and slices from scissored lips,
a scalpel against buttery skin?