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Carnivore
I’m consuming myself, my doctor says, and I get the urge each time I lift a fork. How it rattles with anticipation as I aim to plunge it into the scar tissue of my chest. No worries. The heart is not where the heart should be. Neither am I. I’m supposed to be upright and sturdy as a moose. Better yet, a gazelle. I used to walk so gracefully, so elegantly in that animal me. How my antelope nose soothed my buck’s neck before he stotted away, stomping out my heart like the last flame before silence. I’m lonely. This entire burnt forest has forgotten my name. I bend to lick the ash and remember nothing. Not even the twitch of my heart once pink and alive as a nest of hatchlings. He chewed it off just like I’m gnawing at the dead gazelle of me. At night I detect thumping. Heartbeat or hoofbeat, I can’t say. It creeps further away, memory of a man who once loved me, hungering for the whole of me. Oh I used to be more edible than this. And so mealy.