When I'm satisfied, I'm breathless. But when he leaves, I still want more.
I wanted his tender, youthful meat. I wanted the sensation of his blood running down my chin as I utterly consume him. I wanted his awful, wretched heart, that terrible pumping organ, all to myself. Not to dine on in a dignified manner. But to swallow whole. I wanted to swallow him whole--like I had begged men before to swallow me whole, but none ever did, so now I am doing myself a favor.
Lord, I know the feeling of a woman who wants you dead, who wants you to rot; a devil of a woman, but it's not exclusive to a gender, is it? The act of destruction does not discriminate based on societal creations. But her hands around my neck get tighter every time I speak her name. Maybe I ought to shut up.