Gore for Those Who Like to Visualize (The Martyr Version)

My eyes melt onto the frying pan.

Scrambled veins and toasted corneas.

My pupils boil over.

Cooking for my beautiful boyfriend

who reads the newspaper:

“Local Woman Dies in Bathtub.

Now isn’t that sad?”

I flip my eyeballs,

they are crisp on all sides,

“Yes, it is.”

—

Picking at my guts for dinner.

I wanted peas and mashed potatoes.

The red slime sounds like macaroni and cheese.

Pretending food is other food keeps me full.

A picky eater versus

an eater who picks at their food.

I eat to sustain,

if I must bite at your thighs, 

I must.

—

When the frostbite turns skin black

and the exit wound leaks sweet southern molasses,

I awake.