I lick your wound.

The salty sadness of it,

The rank weepiness of it.

I lick and I lick

And from the outside it looks

Maternal,

Or at least generous and caring.

But I am eating your pain.

I feel it coursing

And I want more.

I lick

And you think it soothes.

To have that touch

Feels like it should feel good.

But each time

I lick away a bit more of you.

Each lick fuels the hunger

And I wonder how much of you

You will let me lick away.