I’ve always had this feeling,
A need, a want,
To chew into my leg and press down with my teeth.
Sputtering saliva surrounding the blood,
Removing the chunk.
Or maybe with a knife,
Smoother, simpler, slicing.
Simple as scooping whipped butter.
Surgically removing with skill and precision,
A fatty piece of hate.
If I bite it or cut it off the bone,
Will the satisfaction come?
That buttery, slippery piece coming off,
Will it achieve my needs, or will I bite something else?
I chew into my chin and press down with my teeth
As I did with my underarms,
And now all the butter is gone.