Eating You

I didn’t start out trying to eat you, but I wasn’t exactly surprised when it happened. And now that I’ve eaten you, I feel something akin to the familiar gulp that comes from recognizing cable reruns.
I didn’t eat you like a cannibal eats people, but like men have always eaten things they love. It’s meant as a compliment, but hard for us both to hear, and harder for me to live with. I hate the scraps I’ve left behind, hate my wasteful zeal. I’ve watched men breathe the things they love in and out, and in that way they manage to hold onto them for years. I’ve tried, but I can only take a few good breaths before the aroma teases my nose and I need to feel something in my mouth, pressing on my tongue.
We both knew I was going to eat you when you asked if I wanted to make love, your eyes closed to hide the confidence of my affirmation. We made love and you arched your back in recognition of something you didn’t understand and I lapped that up because I had seen it before in daydreams and on screens. I was the child pointing to my order on the picture-laden menu, and it was exciting.
You were hungry to be eaten and shivered greedily with every bite I took. You watched a leg and then an arm disappear down my throat and considered it an achievement, something to hold over your friends at the next coffee shop meet-up. You were a proud oblong body, tossing your shoulders into revolving doors in a way I’d never seen. And now that you’re gone I’m left with aromatic oils on my fingertips and lips, memories of large swallows, and the rising hunger for a new meal.