FEAST

Pluck my bloody eye
Out of the cinder bin
There’s no value in it
For the scrappy old bin man

You gouged it with your spoon
Whilst feasting on my innards
Sprinkled with salt
With a side of my soul.

“Ah. If only you’d been a girl,”
You mused with my blood
Dripping off your chin
A thin soup indeed.
“We could have enjoyed dessert.”

The kitchen fire raged.
The tableware melted.
And my carcass consumed.