Sarah Morgan

If I became vicious

Throat-ripping, heart-tearing

I wouldn’t feel

Innards-smoldering, aching red, pulsing pain


A shadowed wingspan, camouflaged predator

Flighting down from the outskirts

To slash and burn

Rape and pillage

Snatch up the craved thing

Then slam it down, rolling spine on concrete

Bored limbs stiff,



Yet the tender cut so sweetly

In soft, fine slices

And no longer being someone else’s morsel

Forgoes the possibility

Of enjoying being consumed

Wrathfully wanted

Melting on that someone’s tongue

Instead of hacking it out

And burying it where it can’t bloom

Or respond with silence


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