On the day I ate my lover’s heart
I used the fingernail of my index finger
– the longest of them all –
to slit him
straight down the middle.
I cracked his sternum like a walnut
leaving the shell of him behind.
I yanked
until it lay beating
– glossy and red –
in both hands.
I bit into it
With a crunch.
And the juice, his blood, ran down my face.
I wish he could have seen me then,
So alive, picking his pulp from my teeth
With the sharpest piece of rib.
I don’t know what else to tell you –
Other than it was a Tuesday.

Chelsea Wolf is an overly caffeinated writer and musician living in New York City with her four rescue cats. She is currently working towards her MFA in Creative Writing at The New School. Follow her on twitter: @chelswolf

Featured image via Pexels.

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