They hang on the wall,
My collection of grisly souvenirs
The last barely a month old and showing little signs of decay.
This is my sanctuary, my quiet place, a space of reflection,
Where I can be alone with those that know me best.
Those that are a part of me, their memories, their bodies, their minds.
The first is my favourite, my best, my love.
Her eye sockets are empty, the once vibrant colour gone, leaving only a vacant stare.
I ate her.
Filleted her lean flesh from her bones, and devoured her piecemeal over time.
She, like the others is a treasure box
Her skull holding not grey matter,
But a jar, filled with portions of her puréed organs, and brain.
The walls are pristine white,
But for the drippings and droolings of crimson that mark each place.
I call it art, though some may disagree.
We are animals, humans. given teeth in which to tear flesh from the bones of other animals.
Are you any different?
Do you not devour the blood and meat of animal life in order to survive?
To feed yourselves?
Are you better than I?
Granted, my actions would be frowned upon in polite society
They call it cannibalism.
I call it survival of the fittest.
I sit in judgement of the only ones who would dare to do so,
The only ones who matter.
They who sacrificed their lives in order to feed me, in all cases involuntarily.
But not my first, my heart.
She watched me suffer as I suppressed my desires,
Choosing only to bite and not tear, to draw blood and not drink,
Sometimes shaking uncontrollably with the paroxysms of my passions.
Only then did she see the error of her ways, her thoughts
And gave herself over as first meal to my overpoweringly strong jaws,
Smiling as I tore great chunks from her inner thighs, the rest.
She screamed joy at my release, begging and pleading
I punctured her eyes, sucking them from her head like some rare delicacy.
The release was too much for her, the delicate flower that she was,
Her heart staggered it’s last beats like a trapped bird in a cage.
You never forget the first, and she,
My fragile angel, with hair like spun glass, tasted like spring.
Her blood reminiscent of early morning dew, so much so that I imbibed it like fine wine.
How her vitality danced on my tongue.
No other has come close.
They all taste tainted, spoiled somehow.
Perhaps this one will be different.