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.