I remarked: it is strange I shed blood so easily today!

coming down the staircase shuffling
ankle-deep in bed-sheets, dilettante doll-ascetic
lisping drenched – somehow savorous the night besmirched me –
lily-print duvet spongy with blackenings and incisors bare
gnawing nightdress's sleeve in the sanitarium kitchen asking him

WHAT DID YOU FEED ME LAST NITE?

said I heard a mammal in my annex – unhygienic
and this morning I feel (twitch in the adipose)
chronic aesthetics of my digestive apparatus disabled
by blood-fat languor of abundance I would absence, it's an abscess,

He shoved a tube up my nose for breakfast.
Sumptuous choke down
Something red. Tried to say I couldn't stomach it—

the blood welling gullies, rivulets, galantine conduit of
gash the huge roast pouring hot blood jelly out of it, the
private tissues of unnamed animal the Man of the House
(superintendent) carved chopped
in chunks

undercooked roughs up my trauma-mouth

it's natural:                 my stomach is despondent ( a widow )

demands I watch what I eat

a maiden ought never be seen eating but

in mirrored syrup (cerise) he's "observing" me. the Paroxysm Post_Meat:

against the wall of banquet hips boil a wriggle receptive to 16-pc reusable cutlery
leering one eye twinned to swell-lip coarsens, itch, and unrefined contortions
accelerate that girlish proclivity once stimulated cannot be restrained

disfiguring my
angel-strain daintiness on the eve of bodiless         
i'd defined saintliness

"autosacrifice via a diet of cake crumbs, of dexatrim and saline"

rinsing w/ tapeworms to keep my tongue clean i repeat she will eat when she is hungry and she is never hungry, she has never felt better, she can live indefinitely. It's true I can no longer convey food to my mouth, I can no longer chew my teeth too decayed and best of all I can no longer swallow. like a freak for lidocaine—"SHE CANNOT FEEL THE FOOD IN HER MOUTH." Smiled while I maneuvered my jaws around

when he puts his finger in, when he blood-spawns up my swine belly
when he puts that fat piece of victim between my lips—I do not participate.
Inflames ivory nightgown engorged. He coerced it. The liver, the veal, the cleaver,

slung between my depilated flanks posed lounging in the examination salon I'm apt to succumb

: where do you feel the reddest?

inoculates another clump of forcemeat
reddening w/ excess as i binge on coquetry barefoot digging tender my plump thigh
w/ the tines of a fork cos tonite he reckons i've got trichinosis—

SUPERINTENDENT'S ADDENDUM:
"I have found…a large proportion of the adolescent insane have been flesh-eaters…"
NOTE: the autopsy of a nymphomaniacal meat-eating girl revealed she had no cerebellum
NOTE: she dies and is minced. the thing about her is that she's a nymphomaniac. she's wearing
a red veil, red leather, red boots.

: : : : :

AURORA LINNEA is the author of THIS MUTILATED WOMAN'S HEAD (Solar Luxuriance) & PARiAH, a zine. She gurgles through the wound as suppurative cur-daughter of the performance initiative DESPOiLER, cassette tape recordings of which are released by the GROVL label.