The Good Meat — Chris V
poetry ☆
poetry ☆
I have become a dog
Staring down at you on all fours with unkind eyes
Drooling at your naked body under me
Unable to decide which part of you to take first
Long, sticky ribbons fall into the valleys of your curves
My wanting mouth lapping at every puddle of spit
The salt on your porcelain skin making it taste all the more sweet
It reminds me of the good meat that hides between your legs
With a pair of wet, shallow fingers I circle deep breaths out of your body
Slowly caressing against slick walls
until I feel the good meat behind them pulsing
I circle the tip of my tongue around it
Feeling it expand in my mouth as I match the pace of your shaking body
I hold your soft, meaty thighs apart with firm hands
And I lose myself completely in you
I fill my endless hunger with your pleasure
Not noticing your hands brushing through my hair
Or the pop of my skull cracking open
I don’t even feel the bits of brain you scoop out of my head
The viscera still wiggling like maggots between your wine-stained teeth,
as fingers run down my back tracing my organs
for which one you’ll save for last
Flooding my mouth as you imagine sucking the ivory from my bones
I could stop it
Could save what little I am before you consume me whole
But there’s nothing left to save when you become a dog
Nothing left but the good meat
Chris (They/Them) is a self admittedly terrible gardener, decent cook, and an aspiring writer based in New Orleans, Louisiana. Growing up they would always watch people and things from afar, making up stories in their head about everything around them. Then one day they discovered a special group of people, called writers, who not just imagined these things, but also wrote them down. When they're not found at home or at some random coffee shop writing, you can catch Chris lurking amongst the old oak trees smelling the magnolias or following the sounds of jazz across the river at night. But if it's a Sunday, there's a good chance they're taking a nap with their two cats.
