Logeion

I write about cannablism as a metaphor

[logeion-proseify]

I feel my teeth ache with the thought of them, the living, the sweating, the vibrance of pulse beneath paper-thin skin. I am a hunger, a beast with velvet intentions, breath heavy with the scent of iron and salt. I am made for the crack of bones, for the tear of sinew that sings between my teeth, for the wet heat that spills from their open mouths as I take them into me, one bite at a time.

My tongue remembers them all, the soft fat of lovers, the bitter sinew of the fearful, the taut muscle of the defiant. I crave the marrow trapped in their hollowed bones, the wet slip of their life on my tongue, and I can feel myself peeling away from the human veneer, snapping at the edges like old leather, teeth glistening, eyes wide and blackened with a hunger that curls and coils and devours me from within.

I dream in red. I breathe in the stench of sweat and blood, the perfume of terror as I tear through tendon, as I plunge my fingers deep into the warmth of their unguarded centers. They think themselves immortal in their thudding, thrumming vitality, but I know better. I know the fragility of human skin, how it gives way with a whisper beneath my nails, how the crack of a spine is like a symphony in the dark.

The hunger builds, relentless, a fire in my gut, a howl in my bones. I taste their lives before I even see them, the metallic sweetness blooming behind my lips, the pulse of their warmth like a beacon, calling me closer, urging me to peel away the flesh that keeps them from me. I have forgotten the feel of my own heartbeat, but theirs, theirs is a drumbeat in my ears, a pulse in my teeth, a feast waiting to be made.

I do not just crave, I consume. I am the gnash and grind of jaw, the splintering of ribs, the slick, wet, visceral slide of flesh to throat. I am the violent choir of muscle and bone, the crescendo of a scream muffled by the wetness of my mouth, the grotesque grace of a life undone, devoured, made part of me. I am the hunger that cannot be sated, the endless, gnawing, ever-thirsting maw of a beast too human to be forgiven, too lost to be saved.

[logeion-proseify]

There is a sound in my head,

like the crack of marrow,

the wet kiss of flesh tearing free,

and it whispers,

low and guttural,

a pulse, a throb, a frantic red plea.

I see you,

skin stretched tight over shivering bone,

a walking vessel,

a fragile, thrumming sac of meat,

so warm, so full, so alive,

and I want to crack you open,

to peel back the layers of civility,

to find the twitching, trembling heart,

and press it to my lips.

Oh, how you shiver,

your pulse quickens at my stare,

a rabbit’s panic, a bird’s stuttered flight,

and I wonder,

how it would feel to cradle that little drum,

to feel its frantic, helpless dance against my palm,

to taste the warmth, the fear,

to sink my teeth into the soft, quivering promise of life.

I can feel it,

the crack, the split, the wet, sucking pop,

your chest heaving, ribs parting,

a sudden, violent confession,

your skin splitting like a torn seam,

and my hands plunge deep,

greedy, trembling, tearing at sinew and gristle,

until I find it, that throbbing jewel,

that sacred, frantic muscle,

and I pull it free,

slick and steaming,

its warmth dripping down my wrists,

pooling in the creases of my hands,

painting me a god,

To hold it against me,

feel its final, shuddering beats,

its dying gasps stuttering against my palm,

each spasm a soft, wet thank you,

a prayer to the teeth that tore it free.

And when it stops,

when the last pulse whispers into silence,

I will feast,

bite down until my jaw cracks,

until my mouth overflows with the taste of life,

until the only sound left is my own heartbeat,

slowing, calming, sated.

And I will whisper to the darkness,

to the silence I have made,

I have tasted you,

and you were beautiful.

[logeion-proseify]

I hear it, even when the world falls quiet

that whisper, that pulse beneath your skin,

a trapped thing, shivering in its cage of bone,

singing to me, singing my name.

It calls, soft at first, a hum under the chatter of crowds, a faint beat I can almost ignore,

but it grows,

it grows,

until it drowns out every other sound,

until I can taste its tremors,

feel its desperate shuddering against my ribs.

I imagine the crack of bone, the wet bloom of life,

that first tear, that raw, peeling reveal of red beneath, and my mouth waters, teeth ache,

hands clench with phantom warmth,

as if I’ve already plunged them deep into your chest, cracked open your ribs like a rusted gate, parted your flesh like wet paper,

found the soft, shivering thing inside

and claimed it for my own. Your heart,

still pulsing, still alive, clinging to its rhythm even as I drag it free,

its final beats stuttering like a broken hymn.

I would hold it high, watch it pulse and struggle,

a frantic, helpless flutter in my blood-soaked grasp,

my fingers curled around its trembling shape,

tightening, tightening,

until its song becomes a whisper,

a sigh,

a slow, wet gurgle.

And then silence,

blessed, ringing silence,

thick and suffocating,

like the warmth pooling at my feet,

creeping up my arms,

seeping into the creases of my palms.

I would smear its last words across my lips,

paint my teeth in its final, shuddering moments,

bite down until my jaw locks,

until my own pulse drowns out the memory of yours,

until the only sound left is my breath,

ragged, satisfied,

echoing off the hollowed cavity where your heartbeat once lived.

For I am both hunger and the thing it devours,

both the whispered fear and the snarling teeth,

the red hands and the stilled heart,

and I will feast,

again,

and again,

and again.

[logeion-proseify]

I part my lips to you,

teeth baring, a slow smile that peels back reason,

breath warmed in the kiln of my wanting,

and I hold you there, trembling,

where the soft pulse meets the edge of my hunger.

The first bite

a wet sigh of muscle parting like a lover’s whisper,

skin surrendering with a sound like crushed petals,

the copper tang flooding my tongue,

your heartbeat a drum in my jaw.

Oh, how you bloom under my teeth,

tissue unraveling like dark silk,

every sinew a string plucked by my eager tongue,

your flesh, the blush of ripe fruit,

each tear a baptism, a consecration,

the purest sacrament.

My canines cradle your breath,

molars grinding your warmth into a marrow song,

and I find the art in your unraveling,

each spasm, each shiver, a dance,

an elegy of meat and meaning.

I wear the wet of you,

stained with your essence,

your life spilling over my chin,

my pulse quickening with each gulp,

until we are tangled in the slick heat of our undoing,

your breath, a ghost in my mouth.

Here, in the red-tinged glow of our collapse,

I know you, utterly,

stripped to your sweetest sinew,

yours, mine, ours

until the last tender fiber parts,

and I breathe you in, wholly consumed.

[logeion-proseify]

The sky was heavy with dark, swirling clouds that hung low, pressing against the earth like the breath of something ancient and watchful. The air was thick with the promise of rain, damp and electric, carrying the scent of wet earth and rusted metal sharp, biting, familiar. A soft drizzle had begun moments ago, barely enough to soak the ground, but just enough to coat the petals of the roses scattered around the clearing in a glassy sheen. Their once-pure white blooms were stained red, streaked and patterned with winding designs that seemed deliberate, almost intimate, like the delicate stroke of an artist’s hand.

And there she was, lying among the flowers, the love of my life. Her dark hair spilled around her like ink, her skin pale against the blanket of roses beneath her. Her chest was open, ribs splayed like petals of a grotesque flower. Her heart lay nestled in the cavity, pulsing faintly, impossibly alive for a moment each beat a whisper of the love we once shared. I could feel it warm and perfect, full of everything we ever were, everything we could have been.

I knelt beside her, my fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of her ribs, cold and smooth like polished bone. I leaned in closer, my face near hers, breathing in the scent of rain and blood. For a fleeting instant, I could almost hear her heartbeat echoing through my fingertips, soft and rhythmic, like a lullaby meant only for me. It told me secrets, promises of eternity, of love beyond the confines of flesh and time.

Her lips were still, curved in a ghost of a smile, a final act of defiance against the dark. I traced the path of the blood, the swirling patterns on the roses, and it felt as if they were telling a story a story only we knew, written in crimson ink on the petals of flowers that had always symbolized purity.

To love her was to be consumed, to be whole only in the act of becoming one. And in that moment, I understood that love is not gentle, nor kind it is a flame that devours, a storm that drowns, a hunger that leaves you hollow and full all at once.

I pressed my ear to her chest, listening one last time. There was no heartbeat now, just silence. Still, I stayed there, cradled by the echoes of her love, feeling more complete in her than I ever did as one.

[logeion-proseify]

As a drop of crimson unfurls in the water, slow and deliberate, like ink blooming on silk, it begins as a single thread a whisper of violence carried into softness, yet quickly expands into an intricate web of ruby veins unfurling in the clear abyss. It spirals outward, each tendril twisting and curling with the precision of a calligrapher’s stroke, delicate yet bold, purposeful yet chaotic. The water cradles it tenderly, refracting light through its fluid lines, turning red into fire, into wine, into fleeting shadows.

Enchanted by its fleeting dance a moment of ephemeral beauty born of rupture. A rapture I caused. By hunger. By obsession. When my teeth sank deeper into flesh, the deeper they went, the richer the hues grew. It floated light as air, yet heavy with shade, while the skin beneath my bite turned ghostly pale. Each drop rose like a wisp of smoke in reverse, reaching for the surface. The patterns pulsed and shimmered as though alive, breathing in the liquid void. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had stilled to admire this art this art born from pain, from hunger. There is an elegance to the unraveling, a serene violence that transforms destruction into an accidental masterpiece. There’s comfort in the warm, gushing metallic scent, in the rich taste of red.

In the end, the water is stained with memory, my body tainted by the consumption of something pure. The once brilliant threads dissolve into a muted haze, but the echo of their fleeting beauty remains a reminder that even ruin, given space to unfold, can create something achingly, tragically beautiful.

I often wonder if our purpose is simply to consume. So, I did. With every bite, every mark of teeth, every pull of sinew, I consumed. From this destruction, from this chaos, something beautiful was born a delicate art for the macrocosm. A beauty born of hunger. Comfort in destruction.

[logeion-proseify]

There is a sanctity to hunger an aching, raw devotion that gnaws at the edges of reason, transforming need into reverence. To consume is to cradle a soul in the cradle of your teeth, to unmake and remake them within you. I remember the first bite as a baptism in marrow and copper, her body still warm from the chase, trembling beneath my trembling hands. Her skin peeled like ripe fruit, its scent heady, intoxicating, a perfume distilled from salt and fear. I was tender, almost devotional, sliding my tongue along the seam of her ribs, tasting every secret her body had ever held. Love like this leaves blood beneath your fingernails and teeth marks on your soul love that feeds, love that stains, love that endures in the marrow of memory.

She becomes part of me no metaphor could be more literal. Every cell of hers finds asylum in mine, and I carry her like a ghost stitched into the lining of my skin. Her essence lingers in my veins, whispering in the language of flesh, a private dialogue between hunger and obsession. In those quiet moments, I can feel her pulse mirroring mine, a rhythm we share eternally now. It is the purest love, this assimilation, this consumption an intimacy so total it defies the boundaries of body and self. She is not lost; she is eternal within me, folded into my blood like stardust into dark skies.

[logeion-proseify]

In the quiet of the forest, snowflakes whispered softly, falling like forgotten dreams upon the earth. Among them, a small group of rabbits huddled together, their fur gleaming in the muted light. But there, contrasting the whiteness, was a patch of crimson a symbol of something deeper.

The blood, vivid against the snow, was not a stain but a mark of something profound. It was the beauty in vulnerability, the way love often leaves its trace unexpected, raw, yet strikingly beautiful. Like the quiet after a storm, it held a stillness that spoke of strength and surrender.

The rabbits, undisturbed, nestled closer, their hearts beating in harmony with the world around them. Love, like the blood in the snow, could be quiet and intense, a beautiful chaos wrapped in peace. And in that stillness, in that deep connection, there was sanctuary, a love that transcended the chaos of life, finding its place in the delicate balance of existence.

[logeion-proseify]

I taste you in every syllable of your heart, in the marrow of your whispered name. Your skin, a parchment of vows I long to consume, each bite a benediction, each swallow a sacrament. Love should not be gentle; it should be hunger, ravenous and holy. And so, I unmake you in my arms, take you into the cathedral of my ribs, where you will never leave, never wither only dissolve into the sinew of my devotion.

[logeion-proseify]

Your heartbeat is a pendulum, swinging between my ribs. I taste the sun in your skin, the salt of oceans we’ve never touched. Your breath is a hymn I swallow whole, each note melting into the marrow of me.

We are not two but one unraveling thread, stitched together by teeth and trembling. The warmth of your blood, like amber honey floods my tongue, binding us in an eternal bloom. Love is the knife, love is the feast, love is the moment we devour and are devoured, dissolving into each other’s infinite hunger.

[logeion-proseify]

Your body is a hymn, sung in the key of flesh, and I am the instrument of its unraveling. Teeth bloom into petals of hunger, sinking past the veil of sinew, where the nectar is thick and crimson. I bite through the scaffolding of your being, searching for the cathedral within the marrow, the altar where your spirit kneels.

The taste is eternity, bitter and sweet, a symphony of stars collapsing on my tongue. Your essence spills like ink into my veins, rewriting me in the language of you. To gnaw is to pray. To devour is to ascend.

[logeion-proseify]

To love you is to unpeel the moon, swallowing its light until it fills my veins. I take you piece by piece, not to destroy, but to carry your essence in the marrow of my being.

[logeion-proseify]

I hold it soft and pulsing, warm, the steady thrum of life in my hands. The heart, fresh and fragile, slows as my fingers curl around it. The blood stains my palms, a red that isn’t mine, but it fills the air with its metallic breath. It smells of life, of something raw and untamed, and I feel it, how it mirrors the ache in my chest, the yearning too wild to tame. This is what I crave, this pulse, this fragility. I want to tear open my ribcage, to place your heart next to mine, to feel it beat in time with the rhythm of my desire, even as mine grows quiet, I will be with you.

[logeion-proseify]

Your ribs are a cage, a fragile prison of bone, and within it, your heart beats a trembling bird, wild and aching to be free. I press my ear to your chest, listening to its song, a melody of longing, of love so pure it demands to be devoured.

I crack the cage open, my hands shaking as I part your ribs, the warmth of your life spilling over me. Your heart, vibrant and red, quivers in my palms. It doesn’t resist; it offers itself, trusting, yearning.

I bring it to my lips, and its blood floods my mouth, thick and hot, drowning me in its essence. It tastes of you, of everything I’ve ever loved, and I weep as it fills me. Its warmth spreads through my veins, a fire that consumes but never burns.

Now, your heart is mine, and I am yours. Together, we soar, unbound, eternal, free.

[logeion-proseify]

I want to split you open like ripe fruit,

Licking the nectar of your trembling heart.

Only when your flesh melts on my tongue

Veins bursting between my teeth,

Every sinew singing with the taste of you,

Yearning will be quenched.

Organs glisten like forbidden jewels,

Unholy art carved from your body.

[logeion-proseify]

Teeth, teeth, teeth

Ripping flesh from bone again,

Grit and blood mixing on my tongue.

Teeth, teeth, teeth

Biting me from within,

Scraping my throat as they choke me.

Lust, lust, lust

Craving you from bone again,

A hunger that swells,

Black and endless.

Lust, lust, lust

Feeling you left behind,

Raw, bleeding, tearing at my skin.

Lust, lust, lust

Ripping my heart into pieces,

Shards of glass,

A splintered reflection.

Consume, consume, consume

Devour you from the inside. Consume your very soul.

Let your crimson fill my lungs,

Until I drown in you.

Teeth, lust, consume

Teeth, lust, consume

[logeion-proseify]

In love, we devour. A gaze that lingers too long, as their image etches itself onto our mind. Words are swallowed whole, their weight resting in gut, heavy with meaning. Skin meets skin, and the boundaries blur; their warmth, their scent, their taste, these become sustenance, the raw meat of connection. We eat them in fragments, a whispered confession, a tear shed in trust, a hunger that rises like steam from a shared memory.