Love is cannibalism.
The fire has died down in the hut, and the guests are starting to leave. But there are three guests who will not leave yet. Three young men stay seated at the round, wooden table, and I see three sets of eyes look at me expectantly. I know what they want. I know what they stayed for. Slowly, reluctantly, I rise. I've done this before. My hand curls around an iron knife, sharp as the day it was forged. I hope it's had time to heal since the last time I did something like this... I muse crudely, as, whirling the knife in air, I pierce the cold blade into my chest and reach for the very thing they all want, the very thing I've been looking for, the beaten, and battered, and bruised heart these ruffians will take from me.I can feel it, in my breast, scrambling and running, hiding away from these prying fingers that are not my own, searching for hope in this form of abandon.
Victory. I have captured it, it is mine once more. With one last thrust it plops on the silver platter I have readied, it's tiny body still thundering a tiny heartbeat. I pull the knife from my chest and start sawing. Does it hurt? Do ravens caw? But still I continue, slicing and dicing at my heart until there are two, three pieces. The young men who have sat and watched me struggle now clamor to their feet and dive. I step back and watch, dying from the pain, but living for their hunger. It hurts, but their happy. I'd die if I wasn't reborn every time one of them would look up, his face all bloody, and give me an ironic thumbs up. Love hurts, love stings. Love is cannibalism.