By Chris Morrison

I’ll begin by removing my scapula for use as a plate. 

It’s given me enough pain as is. 

Next, my ribs as utensils. 

I’ll need them out of the way for later. 

Now that your table is set, we’ll start with the courses. 

First are my lungs, an appetizer. 

You take the breath out of them so easily. 

Your main course is my brain, 

Seeing as it’s continually riddled by thoughts of you, 

Garnished with my eyes, 

So that you can see yourself the way I see you, 

And my tongue, 

So that it might sing your praise more than it already does. 

Pick your teeth with my finger bones. 

And let us finally move to dessert. 

My heart, served on a platter of bone. 

You make it ache, you make it soar, you make it skip a beat. 

I excise it from my chest and, as I’ve done before, offer it to you. 

You occupy my psyche, cause my functions to cease, inflict me both sickness and bliss. 

I offer you my body, my everything, my all, 

In the hopes that you might feast. 

Bon appetit.  

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