Eaten.

As time passes,

I lose more parts

To strangers, relatives,

The elderly, babies,

Collection agencies,

Friends, therapy,

To my girlfriend, 

And people I care about. 

To myself. 

Walking, running, sitting,

Unconscious, awake,

It doesn't matter. 

Like a poster tacked

To a wall,

I am resigned to my outcome. 

Jaws snap, canines slice,

Molars grind, swallowed whole. 

Pieces missing:

Pinky fingers, a foot, an arm,

Half a sternum, 3/4 of a heart,

And the whole frontal lobe

Replaced by bite marks

And strands of warm saliva. 

Gone. Gone. Gone. 

Veins dangling stuck between teeth,

Like a row of used nooses hanging

From a beam in the rafters. 

My emotions are infected,

And pouring out of the fresh lacerations

Onto the tiled kitchen floor. 

I don't notice, even recognize. 

Can't begin to process

What's happening. 

Alone. 

Laying on a couch. 

Packing open wounds

With pink insulation

To stop the bleeding, thinking,

And to absorb the tears. 

It's so hot. 

Dark. 

Damp. 

Empty. 

I lose track of 

The days, hours, and seconds. 

So hopeless. 

In this process of digestion,

I can only be saved by

A finger down the throat,

Or a knife to the stomach.