IfYou might say She is one, a dead thing, and you wouldn't be wrong, but that isn't the whole truth. The truth of Her is the stilled heart of a clock, the space between cold sheets, a cup that cracks as it is filled. She isn't even half full.
(more)
You might call Her hunger, but that's not what she is, its 's only the name of her table. She took Her name from the bed of damnation, and that is where She told it to me.
And now, her name tickles the cavities on the backs of my teeth. Her soft tongue is in my mouth again, speaking for me. I'm ripping nails trying to pry my jaws open and get Her out. The rusted wires threading my gums won't give way. I'm hungry, hungry, and if I could only have a little, just a drink of water, I might make it through the skinned-knee feeling She's left in my gut. But She says - No. Wait. Be patient like me.
And I've been trying. I've been good. She doesn't have to bind my wrists and ankles anymore. And no, I don't mind that she still does anyway.
If I could just eat, I might be able to reason with Her. I might be able to tell Her what She wants to hear, if She would pluck out the twine sealing my lips. I'm so hungry. I just want to look at Her.
She is not a dead thing. Dead things don't eat, and She is ravenous.(less)
