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 Iβve 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.
