I will punch your phalanges
I will lick your diaphragm

Until it is soft enough to be smoothified
With crunchy bits inside
Made from your vertebrae

My molars rape their unliving crusts
And turn them in to intestines to love
Your heart leaves chunky blood clots on my face

Where I rip off the flesh above your spleen
I slit your eyelids to make paper sheets
To decorate the scene of your skinning